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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28425030">Allied Underground</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenuffcaffeine/pseuds/UrbanMuzes'>UrbanMuzes (notenuffcaffeine)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnificent Seven (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - World War II, Gen, POW Camp, inspired by Hogan's Heroes and the Great Escape, some language</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:35:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,351</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28425030</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenuffcaffeine/pseuds/UrbanMuzes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The usual mission of a prisoner caught behind enemy lines is to get himself out and back to fighting for his country from the proper side of the enemy line... but these seven men don't do things the *usual* way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>X---x---x---x---x</p><p>This was originally posted on LJ circa 2009. It's an M7 fusion with Hogan's Heroes and the Great Escape but is not a crossover. It's just a happy little AU that got stuck in my head and had to be written down. So when folks on an M7 group started talking about such worlds, it reminded me that this existed and I went and tracked it down. Voila! Now it is on ao3. :) Enjoy!</p><p>X---x---x---x---x</p><hr/>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was another bitter cold morning that greeted the men of barracks two for roll call. Frost hung on the words of the Luftwaffe Sergeant. Since the last escape, roll call had become particularly miserable. It started two hours earlier, which is to say, at four am, and then one dorm at a time, they called off a dozen names and sent the men back to their bunks. No one was allowed to leave their barrack until the last man in the camp had been accounted for. And the miserable thing was that the last escape attempt hadn’t even been successful. </p><p>Looking on with veiled disdain, Second Lieutenant Ezra Standish watched as his barrack was counted. Sgt. Schmidt, taller but a lightweight with an oafish gait, seemed particularly relieved to note that all of the men under Standish’s watch were in their assigned places that morning. Standish rolled his eyes at the small man’s nervous habits. Schmidt turned sharply on his heel and saluted the officers looking on from a few yards away. He called out his report in his native tongue. <i>All present and accounted for, Sir! </i> Ezra stifled a put-upon sigh, shuffling foot to foot in an effort to get warmer. The ritual was nothing less than stalling.</p><p>“Lieutenant Standish. It has been nearly two weeks. Can we expect these same numbers tomorrow morgen?” The Commandant seemed pleased with the taunt. Ezra let the corners of his lips tug upward, pretending no offense.</p><p>“With one of our number in the cooler and LeRoce’ up with a busted wing, I have not bothered to poll their long term goals as of yet,” he said.</p><p>Commandant Brunnheiss gave a feral sort of smile as he looked to LeRoce.</p><p>“Keep me informed, Lieutenant.”</p><p>With that, the troops were dismissed to their bunks. At the door, one of the last soldiers turned and blocked the path of Standish and one other bunkmate. </p><p>“Hey Schmidt!” The call came from Dailies, the current roadblock ensuring Ezra’s chances at frostbite. “I’m not bein’ funny, but ye think ye could keep it down with the name callin’ to-day? There’s blokes tryin’ t’sleep ya know.”</p><p>Despite the cold, Ezra hid a grin at the momentary look of horror on Schmidt’s face, then shoved the British trooper into the hut. Ezra waved the other soldier through before falling in, but he hesitated once it was his turn on the step. There was a shouting at the gates and the rumbling engine of a transport truck just at the inner gates. He watched as it came round and readied to park near the Commandant’s quarters. Rather than go back inside the nice, warm dormitory and his waiting bed, Ezra let the door close and waited on the step.</p><p>“Ah, they are early,” said the Commandant. Still, he and his officers turned to the truck waiting at his office. “Come along, Standish. I will let you have these fish. Lieutenants Jenson and Monarch will have to wait until after roll.”</p><p>Ezra accepted the invitation without hesitation and fell in to step behind the Colonel. As they walked, he hurriedly straightened his jacket and tucked in his shirts. First impressions counted, after all, and it was difficult enough being an American officer stuck with a French uniform for the duration of the war. Allies or not, neither side trusted a turn-coat.</p><p>“I gather you were expecting someone,” he said.</p><p>“Ja. Three Americans, as it happens. Their plane was shot down over Dusseldorf. I find your American attempts at technology laughable at times, Lieutenant. Moreso your strategy. A scout alone in broad daylight? Really? Tch. But I am sure the Gestapo have shown them the error of their ways, so I say nothing more.”</p><p>For his part, Ezra said nothing either. Gestapo military police were headquartered in Berlin, so it was little wonder the prisoner delivery was at such an odd hour. He followed the Commandant to the steps of the office, taking an appropriate post just in front of the steps while the Colonel stomped up on to the porch.</p><p>The black and red uniforms jumping out of the truck were certainly Gestapo; two-legged Black Widows in hipped riding pants, thought Ezra. The pride of the Third Reich scrambled to the back of the truck, rolled back the flaps and let down the tailgate. Ezra watched three men jump to the ground under threat of five Gestapo firearms.</p><p>The new prisoners were each of them big men, at least six-foot tall and broad shouldered. The one furthest from Ezra was blond with narrow features, looked suspiciously German when compared to the other two. It was quite a shock to see them standing beside a Tuskegee man. The third man in the lineup, closest to Ezra’s position, had the bronzed skin and bushy mustache most popular among Mexicans, in the harsh shadows of the camp spotlights. Ezra had to stifle another sigh. This particular camp was full of short Frenchmen, beer-gutted Irish and beanpole Brits; these three Americans had no hope of blending in. Lord help them all if they ever tried to run for it.</p><p>That’s when Ezra’s eyes caught on the blond man’s rumpled uniform. Colonel. The Lieutenant snapped off a salute as the Commandant read off the men’s names.</p><p>“Colonel Christopher Larabee. Captain Scott Wilmington. And Sergeant Nathan Jackson. Welcome to Stalag Twenty-Two. And for the purposes of us all getting along, I introduce myself to you as your host, Colonel Wilhelm Brunnheiss.”</p><p>The men would have saluted as was customary greeting of men of equal or greater rank, but a Gestapo agent was still fussing with their handcuffs. The Commandant went on without noticing.</p><p>“We have a wonderbar record at this camp. Few problems. It is, however, not the most... eclectic. I don’t believe I need point out that you are a curious group?”</p><p>“But you will anyway,” said Colonel Larabee. The Commandant offered a brief smile to shadow Larabee’s. At last the handcuffs were off and the men shouldered their kits more comfortably, sneaking a glance around what they could see of the camp. Not waiting for more formal introductions, Ezra stepped forward and offered the men a hand in greeting.</p><p>“Lieutenant Ezra Standish, US Army, sir. Ranking officer of the POW population for our Stalag-Luft.”</p><p>“Former ranking officer,” said the Commandant. Ezra simply nodded at the uselessly redundant information.</p><p>“That’s a French uniform, Lt.,” said Larabee. Ezra again nodded.</p><p>“Yessir. I am a translator, formerly assigned to a French regiment out of Versailles. After a few attacks, this was the only uniform choice available to me.”</p><p>Larabee nodded easy acceptance of the tale while Standish felt the scrutiny of the other two men. </p><p>“Colonel,” said the Commandant, “I am obliged to reiterate the observation that you are now ranking officer among the prisoners. Accordingly, there are certain duties that now fall to you. Including a certain amount of responsibility for every life within this camp. You report to me. Any incident is immediately reported and noted. Appropriate disciplinary action is left to my discretion. Etcetera.”</p><p>Larabee squared his shoulders and gave a solemn nod. “Understood.”</p><p>“Gut. I also must advise you not to be encouraging escape among these men. Given our Stalag's record, it would be foolish.” There was a note of arrogance to the man’s voice, but a look at the suddenly pale color on Standish’s face seemed confirmation enough for Larabee. Strangely though, Larabee gave the men an odd grin.</p><p>“Commandant. Prisoner or not, I hope you in turn respect that each man in your camp is a soldier first, and a prisoner last. I’m sure you’re aware that it’s every soldier’s unspoken duty to return to his own side during times of war. I can not guarantee that I will be able to prevent these men from following orders that, in effect, come from a little higher up.”</p><p>The Commandant considered Larabee's words for a moment.</p><p>“I believe you can, Colonel Larabee. And as I said, if you come to value these soldier's lives, you will. Some of you are here at the mercy of an agreement we have chosen to honor. Escape is a soldier's breaking of the agreement and, for a time, offers no further protections. I am aware of the Conventions, Colonel. Do not test me.”</p><p>Again, Larabee glanced from the Commandant to the straight-backed, but otherwise impassive, Standish.</p><p>“Alright then,” was all he said. Brunnheiss took that as an agreement on the matter.</p><p>“Wonderbar. Then I suggest you accompany me on roll call. Meet your men. The Lieutenant will arrange for the three of you to stay in barracks two, I think.”</p><p>Standish, Jackson and Wilmington having been thusly dismissed, the Lieutenant turned to lead the men back inside the gates. He doubted he would get much sleep now for a time, but at least he could go back inside where it was warm. With only two rooms in barracks two, Ezra realized, he was sure to lose the privacy of his bedroom before the sun had fully peeked over the ridge poles. The man's steps quickened as a litany of multilingual oaths flashed across his mind.</p><p> </p><p>X---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>Of course, Ezra was right. He usually was on matters of protocol. His mostly-private quarters had been invaded, relegated to shared duty with Cpt. Wilmington. The room was no longer a place of peace and rest, instead becoming far too small and uncomfortable. He had quickly learned that the Captain preferred the moniker ‘Buck’ over his Christian name of Scott, and that the man talked entirely too much. For three nights now, Ezra had been forced to sleep with his pillow over his head to first drown out Wilmington’s prattle, and then his ungodly snoring. An afternoon nap around two pm had become vital to his continued good spirits.</p><p>There had been an unexpected adjustment required now that he no longer had a purpose in the camp. Despite his rank, Ezra was suddenly his own man again, just like every other listless prisoner of war in the camp. Having tired of escape agendas, with no real responsibility toward his fellow man, Ezra had been slowly adjusting to the prospect of sitting out the rest of the war in obscurity. Even the worst-case scenario bought him a little more time than his escape attempts would. They seemed to be getting worse instead of better. Naps, however... those were nice and predictable, never changed. Today he sat in the sun outside of the mess hall, dozing against the wall and dreaming of a Georgian summer.</p><p>“Lieutenant. Been looking for you.”</p><p>The voice that interrupted his dreams was entirely unwelcome. Ezra reluctantly opened his eyes.</p><p>“Colonel Larabee. How may I be of assistance?” His voice was rusty from sleep but sounded considerably more helpful than he felt.</p><p>“Now that we’re settled in, I’d like to know a little more about the camp. I’ve got the lay of the land, but not the people,” said Larabee. He and Wilmington settled down on the bench beside him. Ezra had not been expecting the question, nor the uninvited company. It wasn't from any personal ill-will toward the Colonel, more of a reaction to the sudden reanalysis of his immediate future. Larabee was starting him down a path that would either entangle him in another doomed escape routine, or tie his name to camp politics. Neither of which were favorable options when Ezra's only goal for the hour had been a nap.</p><p>“Could you be more specific?” he asked finally. “What exactly is it you wish to know?”</p><p>“Everything,” said Buck. He lifted his hands and gave an expansive wave to illustrate the scope of their objective. “About everyone.”</p><p>“That's rather a time-consuming project, Captain.”</p><p>“I dunno about you, but we don't have any other plans going for the rest of this war,” said Larabee. Ezra caught himself before he let the frown catch his lips. He considered it for a moment and nodded.</p><p>“Perhaps if I knew your intentions, I might know the best place to start on such an open question.”</p><p>“Start with the keepers. Brunnheiss, Schmidt and the boys,” said the Colonel.</p><p>Standish considered himself an excellent judge of human character from his youngest days. He was a troublesome, ignored youth who, with too much spare time on his hands, had delighted in irritating the presidents of his boarding schools. The way to get to a man, he had learned, was to discover what made him tick, find his tells; with that information, all he had to do was exploit the weakness and let the professors self-destruct. It was a guiltless profession when played right and a skill that Ezra had honed over the years leading up to his lieutenancy. And it was, needless to say, useful in his current situation. They unfortunately were not dealing with harmless headmasters anymore.</p><p>“Brunnheiss. Arrogant. Career military, but he's soft, not likely to have ever been involved in much more than a bar brawl,” said Ezra. “He's lax with his orders and prefers to stay on the other side of the gates. When there is disciplinary action to be taken... lately he would prefer to let his guards shoot first and ask questions last. LeRoce, you've seen his arm? He crossed the boundary lines to fetch a baseball. One of the tower guards took a shot at him and hit his mark. Our good Commandant congratulated the guard on the deterred escape. And the last man who tried jumping a transport, he's finishing up a month in the cooler.”</p><p>Buck and Chris exchanged concerned glances. The Colonel said, “That's against the convention. Excessive time.”</p><p>“Not technically. This was Sgt. Tanner’s second attempt since he was transferred here. The Commandant used his discretion and labeled the attempt an escalation, warranting the furthest extent of the allowed time. The best I was able to negotiate was continued meals. What is a borderline infraction is the early morning roll calls. Those were started after Sgt. Tanner's last attempt. Until your arrival of course, roll call lasted two hours, starting at four in the morning, in the coldest part of the day. Essentially intended to caution the rest of the camp into behaving, but Brunnheiss sidestepped all accusations to that effect.”</p><p>“That’s downright unfriendly,” observed Buck. Ezra huffed light bemusement at the understatement. </p><p>He passed along his observations of the Germans running Stalag Four with little hesitation. It was innocuous information, even if he were to have been ordered to repeat it all to the Commandant himself. When Larabee asked about the temperament of the prisoners, however, Ezra hesitated again.</p><p>“Colonel, this camp holds over five hundred service men, from different nations and branches.”</p><p>“I'm aware, Lieutenant. Roll call, remember?”</p><p>“Exactly, sir. Outside of the men in my barracks, and of course, the ones I’ve had to report, I don't know every man much further than name and rank.”</p><p>“You can name every man?”</p><p>“Nearly so.”</p><p>Larabee nodded his approval but kept pressing.</p><p>“The trouble-makers then. What can you tell me about them?”</p><p>“The Commandant keeps files...”</p><p>“He’s not likely to share, Ez.”</p><p>The Southerner was momentarily thrown by the shortening of his name. Wilmington may be a roommate at present, but he was still a superior. It just didn't seem kosher.</p><p>“Wait a moment, gentlemen. This... interrogation. Is it a personal inquiry or official?”</p><p>“A little of both, you might say,” said Buck.</p><p>“Official,” said Larabee. “The troublemakers?”</p><p>Ezra shifted uncomfortably, feeling somehow like a rat on his comrades. Still, he tried to figure out where to start.</p><p>“The man in the cooler for starters. Sgt. Tanner. Two escape attempts in three months and general persistence to disobey camp procedures or the Commandant's orders. He's been put in the cooler twice now, and during this last stay, of course, Sgt. Jackson has requisitioned his bunk.”</p><p>The other men paused for a moment, Wilmington looking to Larabee. The Colonel nodded.</p><p>“We'll fix that before he gets out.”</p><p>“I believe he's due out any time in the next two days.”</p><p>“Alright, then Buck will bunk with me and Sgt. Tanner with you.”</p><p>Ezra was torn between elated and baffled. Private quarters were a privilege of rank, and Larabee was forfeiting it on account of a sergeant? There was no way that Standish would argue however if it meant even a night without snoring.</p><p>“Any others?” asked Larabee. Ezra eyed him carefully, then looked to the slow sink of the sun. Then he stood from the bench and turned back to face the officers. A grand wave directed their attention to the building they sat alongside.</p><p>“I'll introduce you to them at mess.”</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>As promised, Ezra paid particular attention to the men who had the thickest files in the Commandant’s office. Larabee and Wilmington seemed to fit right in with the crowd, each one breaking off to socialize with a different table once they had their meals in hand. They had integrated, as officers, among enlisted men with an ease that Ezra had never managed to do. After introductions, he excused himself to get food. It wasn’t surprising that he found Sgt. Jackson at a table with a handful of British enlisted men. Like Larabee and Wilmington, however, he was deep in conversation, very animated really, considering all three of them were so new to camp life.</p><p>The three men had succeeded in the speediest adjustment period that Ezra had seen yet. It nagged at the back of his mind, but he still found himself trying to avoid thinking too much on it. He had no reason to suspect the men, other than his own jaded paranoia. Shaking his head at himself, Ezra waited patiently in line for his ration of soup and day old bread.</p><p>With still three men in front of him in line, something caught Ezra’s attention and he looked to the other end of the mess hall. Lurking at the open doorway was Sgt. Vincent Tanner. He was a little hesitant in his steps, eying the crowded room and the support beams across the ceiling. It appeared to be too much to take in, because the man turned and left after only five steps into the building.</p><p>Ezra caught Chris Larabee’s eye and pointed him toward the door. After a month in the cooler, there was no telling what had prompted Tanner’s hasty retreat. Larabee broke politely from his table and followed after the sergeant, measured steps that wouldn’t attract a crowd’s curiosity. Ezra waited a few moments, wondering on the surreal feeling to the whole scene. Then something clicked and he moved to the front of the line.</p><p>“One for myself and something for Sgt. Tanner, please,” he said to the chef. The other man, familiar enough with Tanner’s situation, didn’t even bat an eye at the Southerner’s impatience. He handed over two mugs of broth and a full half-loaf of french bread. Ezra nodded his thanks and was quickly following Larabee’s path.</p><p>He found the two men outside, Larabee shadowing Tanner as he walked toward the far end of camp. Back to barracks two.</p><p>Vin didn’t stop at the bunkhouse, however, and kept going until he was in the open exercise area between the row of huts and the fence. On the other side of the fence was an area cleared of trees and showing a short distance of sloped hillside. The summer’s green grass had faded to a murky tan and hard packed dirt was now natural mudslides from the autumn rains. It was a bit dreary, but nonetheless empty. No walls there, man made or otherwise.</p><p>“Sgt. Tanner,” Ezra said. He had to break the silence that Larabee and Tanner were apparently comfortable with, for the sake of his own sanity. When Vin looked over at him, Ezra offered up the mug. “How are you faring?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” said Vin. The words were muttered into the side of his cup and his eyes had gone back to the field.</p><p>“Good,” said Ezra. He wasn’t about to press. The medics would be around in a few days and could pester Tanner for a better answer then. Besides, it was no longer his job. With a glance between Tanner and Larabee, Ezra took a step aside. “Well, before I leave you to your meal, let me introduce you to Colonel Chris Larabee.”</p><p>Tanner shifted to look at his silent shadow. Larabee was quick to order ‘At ease’ before the man attempted to salute around his meal.</p><p>“Colonel,” said Vin.</p><p>“It’s Chris,” said Larabee. Ezra nearly choked on his soup. The other two men seemed to find this amusing. Chris looked to Vin then.</p><p>“Got a thing with spaces?” he asked.</p><p>“Reckon you would too,” said Vin. The cells in the cooler were hardly big enough to move in, just tall walls and a very narrow, high-placed window. Chris nodded. He looked between Vin and Ezra in the fading sunlight.</p><p>“Think you’ll be able to dig?”</p><p>That certainly caught the men’s attention.</p><p>“Dig?” echoed Ezra.</p><p>“I’m not a tunnelman,” said Vin.</p><p>“Listen to my proposition before you dismiss it,” said the Colonel.</p><p>“I’ll listen, but I can’t promise to agree with it,” said Ezra. He tore off a chunk of bread then and handed the rest to Vin. If the Colonel started spouting talk he didn’t want to hear, he was now that much closer to being able to leave. Tanner nodded his agreement with the sentiment.</p><p>“I’ve been asking around. So far, only one or two at a time go over the wire,” said Chris. “And when they do, the krauts respond by sending nearly full brigades after them. But there’s enough men in this camp to cause a stir if even half of the number were to make it outside these gates. How many troops would the Krauts call in to round up just fifty POWs?”</p><p>Vin seemed to give it thought. Reluctant, he said, “About half as many as it’d take t’kill the ones they round up.” </p><p>To Ezra, it suddenly made sense how Larabee and his men had acclimated so well to the change in residence. They had turned their capture into just another mission.</p><p>“Colonel,” said Ezra, “I already told you. They kill the ones who make it out. That’s why the camp has such a pristine record. They use escape as an excuse to break the conventions.”</p><p>Larabee didn’t seem fazed by the appeal.</p><p>“How many escapes have you signed off on?” he asked of Ezra. The other man tried not to show his surprise.</p><p>“Twelve.”</p><p>“How many came back alive?”</p><p>“Four.”</p><p>“How many bodies did they bring back to camp?”</p><p>The conversation made Standish uncomfortable but his flat tone and drooped shoulders almost suggested boredom. </p><p>“None,” he said, “The bodies were sent to Berlin.”</p><p>There was an almost predatory gleam to Larabee’s expression at the report. He said, “I know the names of the eight men whose bodies you never saw. I met every one of them.”</p><p>Vin stared. “They made it out?”</p><p>“Better than that, I know how they did it. They drew us maps.”</p><p>At that point, Ezra decided that he was entirely too sober to be having such a conversation. There was an audible click as his mouth clamped shut, just to be sure he heard the rest of what Larabee had to say.</p><p>“Now wait a minute here. It almost... Are you suggestin’ you landed in here on purpose?” asked Vin.</p><p>“I’m suggesting that my men and I know the lay of the land beyond this camp. With a little work, we can all be gone. Most every man here.”</p><p>“All due respect, Colonel, but you didn’t answer the man’s question,” said Standish. Larabee raised a brow but there was an intensity in his stare that Ezra opted not to argue with further. Even Tanner looked away.</p><p>“How long?” asked a reluctant Sgt. Tanner.</p><p>“We plan and prep until we can dig. Then it depends on how many men we can trust to bring on board. Maybe Spring.”</p><p>“May be?”</p><p>“Maybe. This ain’t an exact science. It’s a gamble, with a big pay off at the end. I just need to control the number of side bets the rest of the men get going. Calculate the risks.”</p><p>“Cutting off escape attempts doesn’t improve your odds,” said Ezra. He was still doing his own mental math on the project’s implications.</p><p>“Nope, but it makes the krauts bored. Lazy. Spoiled.”</p><p>Ezra nodded his understanding and fell quiet. Vin was lost in thought as he stared off at the glen. It was a long time before anyone spoke up again.</p><p>“A’ight. I’m in,” said Tanner.</p><p>“Good. No promises to keep you out of the tunnels, but I’m glad to have you on board,” said the colonel.</p><p>The weight of the man’s gaze turning to him after that made Ezra uncomfortable. Empty mug in hand, Ezra crossed his arms as his shoulders lifted about his ears to fight the settling chill.</p><p>“I’d like to think about it,” said Ezra finally. Larabee seemed to take a second appraisal before nodding.</p><p>“Just both of you keep your yap shut. If there’s men you trust, introduce me. I’ll bring them in to things.”</p><p>“The chaplain will need to know,” said Ezra. He was thinking out loud; he had not made up his mind on his own involvement, but the strategies were no less playing out in his head. “If there’s anyone to straighten loose cannons, it would be him. Not everyone bothers with the rank and file in here. Still, most all bother over Sunday services.”</p><p>Death had become too present a character in war time for the men of such varied backgrounds not to worry together on what lay on the other side.</p><p>The Colonel nodded his agreement with the idea. “Then I’ll see what I can find out about that corner.”</p><p>The conversation over for the moment, Ezra cleared his throat and excused himself to the barracks. There, he helped himself to coffee, watered down a little with the local brewery’s home-made vodka in his small, protected quarters.</p><p>With a deck of cards and a game of solitaire spread out before him on the table, he gave careful consideration to the Colonel’s plans and what he knew of them. The thought that Larabee was a raving lunatic crossed his mind a few times no matter how hard he tried to dismiss the notion; war addled the brains of the sharpest characters at times.</p><p>It was an hour or so before Captain Buck Wilmington showed up to collect his things. The Colonel was making good on his promise to give Tanner the upper bunk. Ezra had a new roommate. He found Tanner to be a great deal quieter and far less demanding a presence than Wilmington as the evening wore on. It suited Standish well and he was able to consider the Colonel’s notion a little more favorably.</p><p>By the time the nightly lockdown kicked in, Ezra had made up his mind to assist the other men’s efforts at mass escape in every way possible. Still, as he tucked in to his bedroll for the night, he was hesitant to promise himself a place on the escape team. He didn’t think the plans could possibly work as successfully as Larabee wanted them to. Time would tell, and perhaps with time, he might change his mind. Until then, Standish would rely on the devil he knew rather than trust any surprise players in the game.</p><p> </p><p>X---x---x---x---x</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hut was hardly half the size of the regular barracks but it was kept in good care. The Nazis had even white washed it, inside and out. The colored walls, and the cross mounted over the door, were really the only outward signs that it was a church. Rumor assured Chris Larabee that Master Sgt. Josiah Sanchez was so devoted to the needs of his company that he white washed it once a month, weather allowing, just to be sure they always had their church.</p><p>Sitting in what passed for general mass, Larabee was impressed by Sanchez’ determination. The man was obviously not a preacher, in some past life or the present. He swore on occasion in ways having nothing to do with fire and brimstone. A few of his flock looked troubled at the big man’s choice of interpretive analogies. Yet Sanchez pushed on and won them back by the end of his albeit scattered engagement. He was no orator, but he tried.</p><p>Larabee hung back, apparently lost in thought as the other men filed out the door. He listened without looking as each man greeted Sanchez with a clapped hand and a few soft spoken, rumbling words. Troubled hearts and minds sought reassurance and somehow Josiah Sanchez fit the bill. Finally it was Chris’ turn.</p><p>“Colonel,” came the preacher’s voice. “I trust I'm not intruding on a private chat.”</p><p>Chris grinned as he looked up at the man over steepled fingers.</p><p>“Ye of little faith,” returned Larabee. That brought a smile to Sanchez’ face. He helped himself to a chair opposite the Colonel's and gave the man his attention. No saluting, no protocol or yessirs. There was no rank in this particular House of the Lord, all men created equal according to a hand-carved sign near the front.</p><p>“Come to learn about faith, Colonel? Or more worldly concerns?”</p><p>“Now what makes you say that?”</p><p>“You and your men have adjusted quickly here. I’ve seen ya'll with the others, talking, laughing, making friends downright fast.”</p><p>“It's war, preacher. Fast friends at your back is all you've got unless you go in alone.”</p><p>Josiah nodded, easy smile still in place. “Stalags aren't set up accommodate Colonels,” he said. “That why you’re bunking with the men rather than in private quarters?”</p><p>“Are you implyin’ somethin’ unnatural about me an’ Wilmington?” asked Larabee. His affable mood had faded, mildly offended. Josiah had him beat by height and weight, but allegations like that to a ranking officer weren't bantered about like old crones’ gossip.</p><p>“No, sir. What I’m implying is that you've caused a stir around here, callin’ off runs through the rumor mill. It's unnaturally still among the men, Colonel. Now you're at my door with your little black rain cloud, so I’m bettin’ you're not really here for a lesson on Daniel. You'll find in me a friendly ear, Colonel Larabee, but the only bush I'll beat will be on fire, and even that I'll think twice about.”</p><p>“Thankfully I’m fully versed. Daniel never actually made it in to the lion’s maws. He just put on a good show.”</p><p>Sanchez let a favorable grin tug at his leonine features but said nothing, leaving two strong wills quietly waiting each other out. After a few moments of silence, Larabee broke first.</p><p>“I've an idea that will require the cooperation of the camp. And yes, that means I asked the men to put off their own escapes.”</p><p>“What does your plan do to the lifespan of your men?”</p><p>“Hopefully extend them till they're old and gray. I think, if we do it right, we can get over half the men out of here.”</p><p>“What? How?”</p><p>“We dig. And we're patient about it.”</p><p>Josiah went quiet, his mind on daydreams of no men reporting for roll call some morning.</p><p>“The look on the Kommandant's face...” he said.</p><p>“Beautiful, huh?” said Chris.</p><p>There was another nod as Josiah thought it over more.</p><p>“Okay, I’m in. What can I do from here?”</p><p>“I figure you know these men. So if there's any nervous types, anyone we’d be better off without, I’d appreciate it if you'd let me know. Same goes for any man you want to vouch for, men we can rely on to help get things going. In a day or so, we'll all of us - my team and a few men here, such as yourself - get together, put things in to motion.”</p><p>“I'll be there then.”</p><p>“Good. It might just be here that we do it. Bring the mountain to Mohamed.” Chris paused long enough to grin at his joke, then looked around the small, empty make-shift chapel. “The Nazis leave you alone in here? Poke in every so often to listen?”</p><p>“Hell no. Some of the men here believe different things. Some don't believe anything at all. So Standish talked the Kommandant in to keeping the men out a few months ago after a guard nosed in and started a fight over the true distinctions of God’s children,” said Josiah. It had been months, but the fight had been a bad one; one of the windows was still boarded up because the camp had refused to replace the glass that the guard had shattered tossing a Frenchman out in to the summer morning.</p><p>“Standish? He’s a regular negotiator with the krauts, huh?” asked Chris. The other man nodded his head, sober and guarded.</p><p>“Yes. He was in daily communication with the Colonel for a while, getting the camp in order and pulling for some better living standards for the men. We have a half hour a day more hot water rations than the guard staff, simply because Standish talked circles around Brunnheiss on a good day. He’s good with the confidence games. And I've been warned a few times to avoid him at the poker tables.”</p><p>“Good to know,” said Chris. After a moment’s thought he added, “Would you trust him with your life? The lives of the men in this camp?”</p><p>“We all would. Most won't admit it, but Standish was ranking officer here because he proved it more than the other two ever bothered with. He’s talked down sentences seven times out of ten and always manages to acquire extras off every supply run.”</p><p>Larabee let that soak in, then nodded in silent acceptance of the recommendation. He stood finally and offered Sanchez his hand.</p><p>“See you at Wednesday night services then, preacher?” he asked. Whatever cares he had a moment before were hidden behind a mask of neutrality. Josiah got to his feet and they shook on it.</p><p>“Wednesday service. I'll post a notice to make them normal occurrences from now on. See if that keeps the krauts out of the Good Lord's work.”</p><p>The game wink amused Larabee and he left the hut with lighter spirits, despite the fact that he had spent an hour in a church.</p><p> </p><p>X---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>Over the next few weeks, Col. Larabee's plans began to take more solid form. Subtle lodging changes kept the POWs on their feet as a whole, and it pleased the Krauts to see Larabee taking such active steps toward breaking up the small groups of insurgents. In reality, Larabee was bringing the repeat escape-artists in under his wing, picking their brains for the ripe bits of information waiting for their collective use. Maps were being drawn up by Nathan Jackson and eventually reviewed by any man who had made it past the fences. So far, however, that number was down to two who hadn't already been transferred; the others who had tried had never made it back to camp alive. Wilmington was slowly working through every man in the camp, testing loyalties before chancing letting too many soldiers in on the plans. Once a man was on board, Larabee shuffled him in to a barrack that would eventually be a digging site. Spirits lifted out of simple curiosity at the widening scope of the plans, but the POW's lives otherwise went on as normal.</p><p>Complaining against the men's idle hands, Larabee started asking the camp Kommandant for tools to let the men work on repairs to old buildings, rusted cars, or anything else innocent enough to be allowed. A few times a week, Larabee sat in on 'classes', playing host by introducing 'guest speakers' to talk for an hour in the rec hall. It was a grown-up's version of grade-school show and tell, each guest sharing some hobby with whoever would listen; star-gazing, constellation reading, stamp collecting, poker tips, and even bird-watching. The topic didn't matter at all; Larabee's goal was to lull their guards into overlooking the community events. And short of that working out, it at least gave the men an added sense of community, something to waste time on and join together in, one that didn't relate to their situation. Judging by the snorts of laughter that followed Pvt. Smith around after he had led a class on how to make animal calls, Larabee figured it was working on both counts.</p><p>Another, unexpected, development that the Col. had been made aware of was a subtle hostility between Standish and Jackson. So far it was only a minor blip on the radar. Both men had greater things to accomplish by working together and they seemed to at least agree on that. Larabee occasionally found their tendency to argue useful, as between the two of them, they outlined every possible cause and effect of any idea until they settled on one that could not be countered or pinioned by some snipe at a weak-point. It freed up Chris Larabee's time considerably when he left at the start of a fight, saw to other matters, and returned to a viable solution. It wasn't the best for their morale, but Standish hardly got on with anyone. Life was tough and everyone met with the same end anyway. The men would get over their bickering, or they would meet with a quicker end than anyone wanted.</p><p>In all of that time, however, not one shovel full of dirt had been moved. The simplest part of the whole operation had turned out to be a deal breaker. The quiet, observant Vin Tanner had pointed the problem out one morning after mess. Chris had gone outside for a smoke and found Vin leaning against the wall, staring at the dirt.</p><p>"What's the plan for the dirt?" Vin asked.</p><p>"Plan? We dig and toss it out along the barracks here and there whenever we can get the buckets out," said Chris. He shrugged his shoulders as he pulled out a hand-rolled cigarillo.</p><p>"That'll be a problem."</p><p>Larabee raised a brow at the other man as he puffed the cancer-stick to life. "How so?"</p><p>"Remember, I tol' ya, I don't dig. It ain't a preference particularly, so much as it's stupid. First time I tried it your way, it cost me a week in the cooler just for havin' the color of it on my hands," said Vin.</p><p>"Then we just won't get caught this time."</p><p>"Cement floors under some of these huts, with wood over top."</p><p>"Naturally. They're German, not stupid."</p><p>"Right. German, not stupid," said Vin. He started idly digging at the cold ground with the edge of his boot. "That's why the dirt under most of the huts, down about a foot all over camp is red. Texas red shows up, real good, over this white sand we're standin' on. They don't mix at all."</p><p>All Chris could do at the time was stare at the illustration slowly being dug out. 'Texas red' was why the Preacher had started around a call for gardeners eventually; little five-foot square patches of red earth slowly took shape outside every hut, being tilled and worked. The Krauts thought it was an amusing exercise in futility, but the prisoners thought it was a great alternative to sawdust bread and glass-embedded sour-potatoes. Those on the inside of their plans knew the gardens would hide whatever dirt they found eventually in the tunnels they would be digging, even if no edible vegetables came from the ground.</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>By Thanksgiving time, the first of the tunnels was nearly complete. It took some fancy foot-work and clever thinking on the part of the boys in the wood-shop; the tools were counted and locked up every night, so they had been forced to make some of their own in between the chairs and chess pieces. With the autumn frosts came solid clay to fight with wooden tools and that became a very risky undertaking. When a wood-crafted axe or shovel broke, it had to be replaced, and that depended entirely upon the benevolence of the Germans that particular week. Shop hours were a reward for good behavior, not a guaranteed resource. But by the time the room shaped up, the team had gotten that glitch licked too.</p><p>Cold weather had hardened the earth to help the POW's shore up what was done, but it was difficult to hide clay when there was snow on the ground. They did what they could packing it in to snowballs and leaving them to disappear in snowmen over the prepared garden areas. The planks to reinforce the tunnels were stolen from empty bunks and what they could sneak out of the wood-shop was used to support the wide cavern they were creating just beneath barracks two. Thanks to the snow, the men were able to cover the floor with the sand from the grounds above in the same manner as they were moving the dirt out, hidden away in snow. It ensured that no muddy red dirt clung to their boots and into the hut above.</p><p>With torches for light, the tunnel was almost cozy, like a very long extension of the common rooms above it. The only downside was that the smoke permeated the air and stuck to their clothes without the decency to smell of cigarettes or cigarillos. The smoke was a risk because the entrance was not air-tight; the acrid gray smoke was tainting their beds, too. A kraut with a good nose would spell disaster at some bed-check.</p><p>It was on Col. Larabee's mind as he watched a tendril of smoke creep up from behind the pot-bellied stove that covered their main entrance one otherwise quiet afternoon. Snow on the ground outside meant the guards left them alone until roll call and bed check after nightfall.</p><p>"Don't suppose any of our boys are electricians?" Chris asked. Buck looked up at him from across the table only briefly before laying down a card to be replaced by their poker game's dealer.</p><p>"Not to my knowledge. I can ask around."</p><p>"Do so. We'll need to rig up a generator, maybe. And about fifty yards of string lights."</p><p>There was a choking sound from Buck and their card dealer decided to join in the conversation. Nathan studied Chris for a moment in obvious concern.</p><p>"Generator? That's..."</p><p>"Not impossible. We just need an electrician."</p><p>"And I don't know of any," said Buck. "What do we do when we have no electrician and no generator?"</p><p>Chris just looked back at his friend with a mild grin. It was one of those expressions that, in their wild and woolly days, had convinced Wilmington that there was something unholy and crazy to Chris Larabee, but now it was just one more reason he was the Colonel while Buck was still a Captain. Buck looked away to the other men at the table.</p><p>"Has anyone checked in to the new kid? The Brit with the stupid hat?"</p><p>"Vetting was your job," said Nathan. Buck shrugged it off and looked back to Chris.</p><p>"I heard him asking for parts. I think he's making a radio," he said.</p><p>"Making one?" asked Nathan.</p><p>"Are we sure he's a Brit? Could be a Kraut testin' waters. What with the escapes stopped, maybe Brunnheiss thinks he smells somethin' up," said Vin.</p><p>"Doubtful. The Colonel is starting to think he's God's gift to the Third Reich and I plan to keep that up for as long as I can," said Chris.</p><p>"So we have a kid making contraband radios now," said Nathan. Chris nodded his approval at the idea.</p><p>"Buck, reach out to him. See if that's what he's doing and try to figure out his angle. If he's got the know-how then we'll need him."</p><p>"What about the generator?"</p><p>"Until we have one, no more digging. We need light down there, but the torches will smoke us out. There's other things we can be doing," said the Colonel. Buck's jaw dropped at the unexpected declaration. They were still yards away from the fence line, having spent all that time making a set of rooms big enough to store half the men in the camp at a time instead of focusing on getting to the outside. It was a given that they would have to wait for escape until spring at the earliest, but there was yet a lot of digging to be done between autumn and the first thaw. Wilmington's cards all hit the table in a fold.</p><p>"For instance?" he asked. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head to feign stretching rather than reach for his friend's throat.</p><p>"I want everything moved down there," said Chris. "The maps, the radio parts the boys have filched, the rations, and if Standish and Bell ever get anywhere with those uniforms, I want those down there too. Stored safe and tucked out of sight. Tools stay down there. If it has to do with the tunnel, it lives there. Then we have no surprise trouble from inspections."</p><p>"Right, Colonel," said Nathan. They had been keeping the tools in the tunnel but the other things were stashed wherever they could hide them. "There's enough room down there. I'll sneak some supplies from the shop tomorrow. Build a table and maybe a shelf or something tomorrow night."</p><p>"Good. Get on it," said Chris. He too folded his hand as he looked to his watch. Shaking his head, he sighed, then rubbed a hand through his hair. "I need to go see about getting Farley out of the cooler. Brunnheiss thought the distiller was a bomb."</p><p>"The fool! Don't these damn Nazi's know good vodka when they see it?" Still, despite his comrade's incarceration in the small, cold eight-by-four-cement box of the cooler, Buck wanted to laugh. Even the Colonel was grinning as he stood and reached for his jacket.</p><p>"That's what I'll be pointing out to him very shortly. Dismissed."</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>Brunheiss enjoyed the laugh at his own Sgt.'s expense, almost as much as he planned to enjoy the complimentary battle of alcohol that came with it. Still, Farley was little more than a foot soldier, albeit a creative one, and the Kommandant was not the least bit bothered by the young man's inconvenience in the cooler. Farley was stuck in the small jail cell for another twenty-four hours - as a lesson against any future miscommunication surrounding his inventions. And the distillery would remain in the guards' care indefinitely. For all of Larabee's efforts, he had little to show for an afternoon wasted.</p><p>It put him in a sour mood as he headed for the canteen. The sign over the mess-hall doors was written in German and Chris had the strong urge to have the boys paint over it in English. <em>Kantine</em> to <em>canteen </em>was such a small change, the Krauts would never notice. Vandalism would land the likeliest suspect in the cooler, however, so it wasn't worth it. Chris still didn't know what kind of dossiers the commandant had compiled on the men of Stalag Twenty-two, so he had no idea who the likely suspect would in fact be. If he had his preferences, next on their lists of things to do over the winter months would be to figure out a back-door into both the cooler and the commandant's filing cabinets.</p><p>It was in this low frame of mind that Chris entered the busy cafeteria. Noise and low chatter echoed off the walls and he soon was kneading at a headache between his temples. He spotted Buck moving from the line and thought about skipping his meal for the night, simply sitting down beside his old friend and perhaps stealing from the bread stacked on the edge of the other man's dinner bowl. Larabee frowned in a flash of confusion when Buck moved away from their usual table at the front corner of the room and instead headed into the middle of the tables and noise.</p><p>It made sense a moment later when the Captain sat down beside a young man in a rumpled bowler hat with a small American flag on it that was made from safety-pins and colored beads. It was a god-awful, ugly hat, and Buck wasted no time in not-so-accidentally knocking it from the younger man's head. At that point Larabee decided he would get his meal and take his usual seat rather than join them; he would have left out-right, but Wilmington had a penchant for riling the most unsuspecting characters when he tried. It would be bad to let either the captain or a potential radio-man end up in the cooler over an ugly hat.</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>"This ain't an ugly hat," said JD Dunne. He beat the sand off of the bowler and returned it to his scruffy-haired head, with all the offense of a gentleman of the court.</p><p>"It is. And what you need with the Stars &amp; Stripes on it?" asked Buck. He was watching the kid, amused and trying to be gentle, despite his show of annoying the younger man in search of personal entertainment. "You're RAF. Right colors and all, just the wrong standard."</p><p>"I'm an American," said Dunne. "Born and mostly raised. It's just when the war broke out, I'd been in London for a few years and couldn't afford to go home to sign up. It don't matter, we're all on the same side anyway. They just don't know what the heck cookies are supposed to look like. Let alone taste like." JD shook his head at the last observation, still at a loss to explain some of the customs of the British despite having been around them for nearly ten years. He had calmed down from the other man's ribbing once Buck had turned his attention to his food and seemed to be having the same trouble just imaging its digestion. "The Brits have better food than the Krauts though, that's for certain."</p><p>Wilmington nodded, surprised by the babble and grinning nonetheless. He shoved at his brothy-cornmeal mush and grabbed for his bread instead. "Sausages and mushmeal again," he said. "When'll these Krauts learn to make real food?"</p><p>Again, young Dunne's eyes got wide and his mouth opened, but his spoon returned to the bowl. "Oh they can. I've seen it. The officers eat off'a silver plates. Potatoes and veggies and steaks... real fruit for breakfast, too. None'a that canned stuff."</p><p>"How would you know? You're new aren't you?" Buck asked. He raised a brow at the kid and reassessed the boy's age; he could be no more than eighteen if he was a day. "KP's for trustees, kid. And no new blood gets KP."</p><p>"So? I had KP before. I got transferred here from Thirteen," said JD. This, again, had Buck rethinking JD's age.</p><p>"What for?"</p><p>"Thirteen's Kommandant ordered the transfer. How should I know?" JD asked with a disinterested shrug. Buck frowned.</p><p>"Well, what'd you do?" he insisted. There was another shrug from Dunne as the boy shoveled a piece of mush-drenched bread-crust into his mouth.</p><p>"Dunno. I was in the cooler for filching from the kitchen. Then I was moved here."</p><p>"Yer lucky they didn't shoot you," said Buck. However old the kid really was, he decided, JD was lucky and stupid both from the sounds of it. His thoughts were a little too transparent because again JD's feathers were ruffled and his volume went up a notch in the thankfully noisy room.</p><p>"I'm not stupid! I didn't filch anything important," said JD.</p><p>"Right, or you'd be dead now. Shot trying to escape."</p><p>JD shrugged again, reassured by the return of Buck's conversational tone. "It was just a potato."</p><p>"Stealin' food's stupid. Stealin' anything's stupid, but food is double stupid. Next time just skip the meal," said Buck. JD was soon shaking his head, animated as he jumped happily in to the explanation.</p><p>"It wasn't for food. See, I wanted to make a clock and I had found the rest of the stuff already to do it. I could hook it up to a light bulb, too... but they, ya know, took it all back when they busted me."</p><p>Buck's jaw hung a little slack as he stared at the young man for a moment. "A light bulb... what in the hell possessed you, boy? Did you somehow miss the memo that there's a war goin' on around yer ears an' you're stuck keeping company with the bad guys? A light bulb's worth gettin' shot for?"</p><p>"No, but I... I was bored and I didn't see the harm. I mean, I wasn't eating the fruit, just poking a hole in it..." The excuse was a flimsy one and JD's attention accordingly returned to his food. Still, defensive, he added, "And I figured it out enough that no, I won't go trying it again."</p><p>"Potato's not a fruit," said Buck. Otherwise, the answer seemed to satisfy him.</p><p>"No, but I didn't just try it on a potato, either," sniped JD back at him. "Potato's just the one I got caught for."</p><p>Buck's momentary relief in regards to the boy's safety disappeared and he narrowed his eyes at the kid. JD wasn't all that savvy, but he was smart it seemed. A little stupid maybe, but Buck figured he liked the kid anyway. They would have to be careful handling the boy to let him know what they were doing with any confidence that he wouldn't accidentally slip up around the Germans, however. Hopefully that would come with a little more familiarity; if they brought the boy into a group and drove home that he couldn't do anything stupid and willful without endangering all of them, Buck figured JD would wise-up fast enough. In the meantime, however, he had just made himself a new friend and Wilmington would leave the details up to Larabee. He shifted enough to offer the younger man his hand.</p><p>"By the by, my name's Buck Wilmington," he said. JD grinned and shook his hand as Buck continued, "Captain in the United States Army. You're John Dunne, right?"</p><p>JD's smile had faded at the title, timid and sheepish as he realized his previous attitude toward a higher-ranked officer.</p><p>"Uh, it's just JD. ...Sir!"</p><p>The reaction heartened the older man's perceptions of the kid and Buck winked. "Just Buck. Until ya do somethin' stupid, like steal from the Krauts to make a hook for that stupid hat. No more'a that."</p><p>"It ain't a stupid hat."</p><p> </p><p>X---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>The kid JD turned out to be a pretty good addition to the crew. Standish swapped an old generator for a freshly-ordered, in perfect condition, generator with a well-planned slight-of-hand that redirected the new one (originally bound for Brunheiss’ quarters) to the barracks under the guise of a winged table needing fixed. The kitchen staff didn’t even notice the old generator was missing, having never had cause to use it, and Brunheiss only cared that the ordered parts had come out of a box fully assembled. That left JD down in the tunnel with a whole new set of toys, the happiest creature on earth capable of holding a set of pliers. By the end of the week, they were digging again, with clean air and plenty of light to help them along.</p><p>With the help of a compass, the diggers kept on the right path. The tunnel they were working on would take them right under the fence, a guard tower, and toward the nearest treeline. The forest was the goal; if they could make it that far, the guard towers would never see them and it would buy vital time for escapees. There was a bit of conflict, however, on just how far off the trees were from the fence line. The prevailing theory, up to the point that the diggers started digging under the open field, was that they would run in to the forest’ root systems and easily figure out when they could start digging up from there.</p><p>Unfortunately, they ran in to the first tangle of roots only one-hundred feet away from the barracks, which was only a short distance past the guard tower. They found more as they dug further, indicating that the field had been more hurriedly cleared of trees than the camp’s grounds had been; above them, the field itself was littered with tree-stumps hidden under overgrown grass. Like a natural minefield, every five steps a man would trip over a tree and if the man were running, he would end up on his face by the time the guards caught up to him.</p><p>So the digging came to a temporary halt to allow them to reassess the distance they would need to cover underground. Some guessed they had less than fifty feet to go, but even the Colonel disagreed with the estimate. After an afternoon of subtle spotting and general loitering as close to the fences as they could get, the seven men in charge of the operation convened within the walls of the church hovel, discussing dirt and digging as soberly as though discussing graves.</p><p>“The only way to know is to pace it. We can’t risk going to all this trouble and end up even two feet short of our mark,” Larabee said. The colonel’s announcement left the room quiet. To leave the camp, risk their lives to make an escape, that was one thing. But to escape and then come back voluntarily? That was just stupid.</p><p>“I’d rather ask Brunheiss for the specs himself,” said Nathan Jackson.</p><p>“Now that’s an idea,” said Standish. Still, the sarcastic muttering was only half as acerbic as it would have been if he didn’t fully agree with the other man’s sentiment.</p><p>“I’m open to other suggestions. I’d rather not risk it myself,” said Larabee. As he spoke, however, he was trying to think of quick-and-dirty escape plans that could get him safely under the fence and back inside without eventually being killed for it. He couldn’t ask any of the others to do something that he himself wouldn’t even try.</p><p>“What if we crawl out under the guard tower? They wouldn’t see us, and we could pace it out, then get back in the tunnel to get back inside the fences,” said JD.</p><p>“Except how do we close it up again?” asked Nathan. JD shrugged his shoulders, daring to smile at the thought that his idea would be chosen.</p><p>“Easy-peazy. We just shore it up and make a door...”</p><p>“Let me amend Mr. Jackson’s point: How do we close it up without advertising to the guards that we have created a door to an escape tunnel that runs directly under their guard towers?” Ezra shook his head at the exuberance. “Brilliance, Mr. Dunne.”</p><p>“Do you have anything helpful to contribute, Ezra? If you’re just here to snipe, none of us have the time,” said Chris. Ezra nodded.</p><p>“I have something, yes. The volunteers who run the kitchen. They’re Americans.” The room fell quiet for a moment as the men thought it over; asking for help from outsiders was something they hadn’t considered yet. Ezra continued after a time. “One’s a journalist. The others are with the Red Cross. While escape is not their concern, they have the ability to come and go, and I highly doubt the tower guards would mistake their figures for any of ours.”</p><p>“I dunno... What if the goons smell somethin’ up? I don’t want to put those ladies to any risk. They’re just doin’ their jobs, and that’s lookin’ after us. That’d be a crummy way to return the favor,” said JD. There was a grunt of agreement from Buck and Josiah both while the others still thought it over.</p><p>“It’s jes’ countin’ steps. I’d bet Nettie would do it. She’s usually on about helping when I’m just back from the cooler. Contrary ol’ gal,” said Vin. There was a fond grin on his face that seemed to clinch things for Larabee. The man shook his head.</p><p>“No. Not under the krauts’ noses. Too much can go wrong if someone decides to start paying attention,” he said. JD let out a sigh and kicked at the floorboards.</p><p>“Back to square one,” he said. Chris seemed mentally gone away, so a few other heads bobbed in response to JD. All of them were thinking, hoping for a solution to present itself in one way or another. Ezra pulled out a small pocket book and began to doodle with the help of the pulpit he was leaned against. For appearances sake, one of them would occasionally take the podium even if they had nothing to say, putting them in the easy line of sight of any onlookers outside and keeping the snoops out. Josiah leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. Buck stared between Chris and JD, apparently waiting for one or the other to come up with something. Meanwhile, Nathan squinted at a Bible a few seats away from his chair as though the devout man didn’t know what the foreign object was, and Vin found the brim of his wire-rimmed, leather scrap-rag of a hat completely fascinating. Chris’ voice suddenly over the quiet broke Ezra’s pencil as the Lt. kicked the podium from surprise.</p><p>“Tanner. You’ve run before.”</p><p>Vin looked up from his hat, brow raised. “Not that way. An’ I had other things on m’mind than countin’ steps anyway.”</p><p>Chris rolled a hand to dismiss the point. “How did you get out?”</p><p>“First time I snuck out with a work detail, first day I got here. Second... I don’t remember.”</p><p>Chris looked from Vin to Josiah and Ezra, the only other long-time residents of the camp. Josiah’s eyes returned to his preferred spot on the ceiling and Chris focused on Ezra. “The second time?”</p><p>“The second time he caught a ride on one of the trucks, hid up in the tarps above the frame. Until the tarp gave way, dropped him, on his head apparently, at the feet of five Luftewafe,” said Ezra. The report was given with a hardly constrained sigh. It had not been a pleasant few days after that, putting up with Brunheiss gloating and the medics’ fussing and worrying until the Red Cross doctor made his rounds.</p><p>“Yeah, don’t reckon I’d remember that either,” muttered Nathan.</p><p>“And I’m not looking forward to trying it myself,” said Chris. “So we need a way to get me out and then back in that doesn’t end up involving five or more guards.”</p><p>“You? You’re the Colonel.”</p><p>“Very observant, Ezra.” Chris smirked as Ezra flustered.</p><p>“I think what he means is that the commanding officer isn’t the best guinea pig for trial runs,” said Nathan. “If we knew what would work, we’d all be gone by now.”</p><p>“The Nazi brass toss my rank around like some kind of prize pig. Brunheiss would catch a whole new level of hell if anything happened to me before they say so. I’ll be fine,” said Larabee. No one else seemed to like the idea. At the same time, none of them had seen the Commandant quite so close to happy since meeting the Colonel.</p><p>“Wednesday is the next kitchen restock, right?” asked Chris. For some reason, every head turned toward JD, the potato-thief. The young man nodded and shrugged his shoulders with the rest.</p><p>“Yeah, every week. It shows up around nine, from Hamburg I think is what the driver said.”</p><p>“Due south.”</p><p>“Yeah, Colonel.” JD's answer faded to a frown of confusion at the feral gleam suddenly banked behind Larabee's eyes. It made Wilmington all kinds of nervous whenever his friend got that particular look.</p><p>“Hoss, you feelin’ okay?”</p><p>Chris simply nodded. “I leave Wednesday. We’ll have our answer by the end of the week.”</p><p>X---x---x---x---x---x</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It seemed to be a twisted brand of kismet that called Colonel Larabee to Colonel Brunnheiss’ office the next morning. Both men were in rare form; almost pleasant moods that left a spring to their step and confused the living hell out of any subordinates in their wake. Brunnheiss called for Larabee on a sober matter of business, however. The Red Cross packages had been delayed again; postal service was so unpredictable in war time. </p><p>“It shouldn't be too much of a trauma on your men. I think you've seen now that we do take care of them,” Brunnheiss said. He was leaned comfortably back in his chair, watching Larabee from across the expense of his paper-cleared desk. Larabee allowed the slightest tug of a smile on one side. </p><p>“In your backwards way, yes, you do,” he said. </p><p>“We are sitting across from each other as enemies, Colonel. In war time. Please note that you yourself are in wonderful health...” said Brunnheiss. </p><p>“Oh, I am. No mistake there,” said Chris. He met the German's smile unwavering. “And we do appreciate your general adherence to the Conventions.” Brunnheiss nodded and gave a small, dismissive wave. Chris’ smile faded to a barely concealed smirk. “That's the reason I wanted a word with you today.” </p><p>“Oh?” The camp commandant raised a curious brow.</p><p>“Yes, I noticed that since I’ve been here, things have gone rather well for the both of us. I keep my boys quiet and you keep us fed. In a way, we make a damn good team.” </p><p>“I suppose, yes, this is true. To a certain extent.” </p><p>“So in the interests of teamwork, this... fledgling partnership... I’ve been thinking to boost your reputation a bit. Stir the pot around here; it would give you something to report on and your boys some real practice at their jobs.”</p><p>“Excuse me?” Brunnheiss seemed baffled.</p><p>“Keep in mind, Colonel, I’m here because my job and number one priority is the safety of my men. But there’s nothin' sayin’ you can’t benefit from that.” </p><p>Brunnheiss lifted a pointy eyebrow and silently assessed the prisoner seated so comfortably across from him. It occurred to him that perhaps they had gotten too familiar lately. “At the moment, I am listening,” he said simply.</p><p>“There will be an escape tomorrow.”</p><p>“What? How do you know this?”</p><p>“My boys are getting antsy. The quiet is getting to them. It happens pretty regular in prison camps. Like a bunch'a cattle with no room to range, they get the urge to start moving,” said Chris. </p><p>“I have never heard of this phenomena.” </p><p>“Didn't say I’d seen it in German camps.”</p><p>“So you are saying, what? They are accustomed to you now? This quiet I have enjoyed was some sort of honeymoon phase?”</p><p>“Not at all. I’m saying we have a choice between letting a few strays test the boundaries, or a stampede with men dying. There’s a riot brewing and I want it nipped.” </p><p>“And you think an attempted escape will do that?”</p><p>“Think of it as dinner theater, sir. It'll keep them talking for weeks.”</p><p>“This, I remind you, is a prisoner of war camp, Col. Larabee. Not dinner theater, not a fountain for gossip.”</p><p>“However true that may be, I’m only letting you know what’s on the wind. At the end of the day, it's your camp. But I think so far we make a good team, keeping our corner of the war a little less... messy. You know what to expect, so deadly force won't be necessary to deter the escape.”</p><p>Brunnheiss thought it over, taking his time before finally nodding. </p><p>“It is my camp,” he agreed. “And we’ll see about any escapes. The camp has an exemplary reputation for a reason, let us hope you do not see it, hmm?”</p><p>“I’d rather we all ride out the war as peacefully as possible.” Larabee let a grin cross his face at the uncharacteristic, ironic statement. He tried to make it as believable a line as a Colonel could reasonably get away with. Brunnheiss seemed to accept it, even laughed. </p><p>“This from a colonel. It is no wonder we are winning the war since you Americans nosed in,” said the amused camp director. Larabee hid a clenched jaw behind a forced smile and rubbed the press-line of his slacks in an attempt at idle fidgeting. It would not do to let Brunnheiss provoke him after so many months now spent trying to get on the Colonel's good side. It helped to think that one day, the German commandant would wake up to the consequences of a completely empty prisoner of war camp.</p><p>“You know us flyboys. They put us in planes because we’re no good on the ground,” Larabee said. It was a nice backhanded blow, given that Brunnheiss was a Luftwaffe colonel who had never spent a day of war time near a plane; grounded and stuck with babysitting the enemy. Predictably, the German officer's smile faded.</p><p>“Dismissed, Colonel.”</p><p>Larabee nodded and tossed off a barely respectable salute as he stood to leave. He tipped his hat to the pretty secretary on his way out. He could still feel Brunnheiss' glare following him until he was out on the porch and had a solid door between them.</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>The morning of the escape was perfectly cooperative; it rained, miserable and drenching. Larabee’s jacket wouldn't hold up well enough through the wet cold, not to mention it was too obviously American. The lambskin bomber hung in the tall cupboard by his bunk among his things. He had to trade it for one of the coats provided by the camp, the stiff and scratchy, hand-me-down wool probably stolen from some local citizen along the way. It was poorly made and itched, but good enough for a day's adventuring in the rain. </p><p>The camp commandant showed no signs of having headed Chris' warning. All the usual guards were in their usual places, no more or less than ordinary, no barracks were locked up, no one had been searched or put in solitary. Tanner and the other likely flight-risks were free to roam without any German shadows. Because of the rain, most of the POWs kept to their bunks and the on-duty guards mostly tried to shelter themselves under porch roofs and awnings. Everything was quiet, no different from any other raining, dreary day. </p><p>A little before lunch hour, Larabee and Wilmington left for the mess hall. At the Colonel's prerogative, they inspected the kitchen and pantry, chatting with the KP trustees and the delivery truck driver as much as the language barriers allowed. The driver waited longer than usual that day because of the rain. The roads back to Hamburg would be terrible and cold, but the kitchen had free coffee for him while he prayed for the weather to ease up. Wilmington and Larabee wished him luck before stepping out back for a smoke. </p><p>The guard watching the truck stood in apparent misery, barely covered by the eaves and trying to stay as warm as possible despite the rain. Until he saw the prisoners approach the truck, that is. Then, of course, he was fluffed up and stomping out in to the middle of a puddle to wave his rifle at them and send them back inside. It was a pitiful sight, to watch him bark while sopping water from his face. Buck waved a cigarette at him, from their nice, dry and comfortable protection between the truck and the supplies loading area. The guard reluctantly relaxed and tried again to tuck back to his post under the eaves while watching the pair. The captain offered the younger man one of the tobacco rolls from the box and the German guard became what passed for friendly among the lot. The three men leaned against the back of the truck in silence, safe from wind and rain to enjoy their cig. </p><p>After a few minutes, there was a commotion inside the mess hall, beyond the kitchen. All three men rushed toward it; the guard pushed to the front thanks to a sudden premonition of the Russian front if he were caught smoking on duty. He would have jumped into the fray had Buck not pointed him back toward the truck and the fleeing driver who was hurrying away from a growing prison riot. The guard sprinted to the back of the kitchen again and out to the truck. By the time the driver had the truck moving, the guard was standing on the driver's sideboard to escort the vehicle to the gates, as per his duty. </p><p>Whistles and shouts bounced off the barracks walls all along the compound from the crowd that had spilled out from the front of the mess hall. The fight that had started inside cooled its heels in the outside air, water falling from the sky to help along the reality check from whatever small misunderstanding had led to the fight. By the time the first German soldier arrived, rifle at the ready, the brewing riot had dissolved into nothing more than a mud bath. Ten full grown men had taken sides along the corridor between the mess and rec halls and launched handfuls of wet dirt at each other, like a messy snow-ball fight. Snow was mixed in with the lot, of course, but it was more likely to miss it's mark so the fighters stuck with mud mostly. A few slapped mud pies in the faces of their own sides. </p><p>The guards that had responded to the fight fell back instantly out of confusion as they recognized laughter through the shouting, then they stayed back out of concern for their uniforms. Their prisoners were laughing, covered in mud like crazy men, not fighting. The guards kept their distance and scoffed at the display of immaturity and completely un-soldier-like behavior. </p><p>Buck Wilmington was technically the ranking officer on the scene, and he knew enough of the main contributors to have stepped in to the middle of the battle and shut it down in nothing flat, but instead he hung back in the safety of the mess-hall entryway. For one thing, the crowd was a mix of American, British, and French troops so they found the men got along much happier when the Americans didn't pull rank. For another, Wilmington's attention was less on the display of friendly-fire and more on the view he had of the camp’s main gates. The grocer's truck had rumbled out with no problems and was out of sight by the time the first of the muddy battlers withdrew from the dirt.</p><p>Vin Tanner was unrecognizable, aside from an unusually toothy smile breaking up what was otherwise a wash of reddish-brown, watery-earth. He stood before Wilmington and Josiah Sanchez and held his arms out to the sides to look at the damage that had been wrought. </p><p>“Reckon I'll need a shower,” he said idly. Josiah grinned at him and shook his head at the observation. </p><p>“Stand outside long enough and the rain will take care of you. Save the ration for later, because I doubt ol’ Jerry'll be too eager to allow it after this,” said Josiah. Vin turned a step to glance at the red-brown-coated POW's snickering and pointing at each other as the mud finally settled undisturbed on the ground where God put it. They were a funny looking lot, particularly when surrounded by pristine, stern-faced German uniforms. The Texan's grin faded some as he realized how lucky they all were that none of the uniforms had gotten so much as a speck of the flying mud. </p><p>“Reckon that’s true,” he said. He shifted his attention back to Buck as the other onlookers faded back to their tables inside the cantina. The other muddy fighters had all trudged off to figure out what to do to get out of the rain now that they were too dirty to do more than step inside the doors of their barracks. “Was it worth it?” he asked the captain. </p><p>Buck finally realized the sight his distraction had made him miss out on and allowed a smile to tug up on his face. He knew the question, however, was not about shower rations so much as it was about their fearless, stupid, crazy leader. Larabee was now off in the world outside the prison gates again, all according to a plan so simple it never should have worked. And yet somehow, it apparently had.</p><p>“You bet. Pulled it off without a hitch,” he said. Vin nodded approval and backed up into the rain again. </p><p>“Good,” he said, “‘Cause I'll be pullin’ dirt outta places it don't belong for the next month.”</p><p> </p><p>X---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>The gray day didn’t dampen Chris Larabee’s spirits once he was on the outside. He had helped himself to a small feast of food - real vegetables, and fruit! - in the back of the truck and had at least a day’s supplies tucked into a ruck sack by the time he jumped off. The forests kept him mostly dry and just wandering in the fresh air, with no fences around him for the first time in far too long, the Colonel felt that he could breathe again. It was nowhere near as beautiful as his home in Colorado, but the temporary illusion of safety and freedom left a rose-colored tint to the blue-shaded world. </p><p>He hadn’t forgotten why he was out, however. The alluring thought of fresh coffee at some safe cafe in Switzerland wasn’t enough to deter him from turning back toward the Stalag. It was a simple task that awaited him and he had a while to walk unburdened by the responsibilities that had been taking a previously unnoticed toll. His presence wouldn’t be missed until roll call, just before dark, and if his luck held then he would be back at the gates well before then. The thought of Brunnheiss’ arrogant face when his prisoner walked up to the front gates and asked to be let back inside for dinner brought a rare smile to Larabee’s face. There was no one around to witness it, and he would never admit to the gloating pride he felt at having escaped so easily from the Colonel’s camp. It was the basest, most dangerous form of pride, pure arrogance and righteous superiority, and he only allowed himself to enjoy it for a mile or so. Too much of it and he risked it all going to his head, getting sloppy; and there was no sense in that when a one-man escape was only a small skirmish in an otherwise long war. </p><p>Larabee had carefully picked this battle and it wasn’t completely his yet; he was leaning heavily on the bet that Brunnheiss would not change his MO after an escape, that the Colonel would not retaliate against the men still in the camp. Brunnheiss may have been an idiot, but he was still an officer in Hitler’s war. In previous escapes, he hadn’t taken out his aggression on the men who had stayed behind, instead gunning down those who he could catch at it. Unlike previous escapes, however, Brunnheiss had gotten used to complacency at his camp, had collected his weekly pay with hardly any effort expended on his part. Chris’ escape would change that, like a siren alarm waking the man from a peaceful dream. And there was no telling what kind of flack could come down from the German High Command after a dry-spell such that Brunnheiss’ stalag had been reporting for so many months. Larabee had trodden on the man’s pride as he jumped up into that grocer’s truck back at camp; there was no telling how the man would react until Chris got back to camp and witnessed it with his own eyes. </p><p>But, that of course was why he was the one to go over the fence and not one of his men. The predictable risk had factored in on the runner’s side, and Wilmington and Jackson had their orders from high enough up that the project could go on just as well without him. Inside the walls of that camp, the rank and file was just an illusion anyway; In a worst case scenario, the hardest blow would land only on the morale of the rest of the camp and not on the lives of his men. The best case scenario left the morale skyrocketing once the men saw their Colonel outside the gates, unattended and lobbing a freshly eaten apple-core at the head of the nearest guard in lieu of ringing a door bell. To say nothing of the smile they would see on his face when he was handed over to Brunnheiss, or the simple victory won by telling the other Colonel, “I told you so.”</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>Easily the most nervous of Larabee’s six inside-men was Ezra Standish. The man had witnessed eight other successful escapes and personally turned their remaining effects over to the camp commandant to be disposed of by the reigning force. Now he waited impatiently to be called into Brunnheiss’ office to hear the bad news all over again, this time regarding a colonel in his own army. Buck Wilmington outranked him but there seemed to be a bond between Wilmington and Larabee that would make the Captain’s facilities suspect after news that the other man had been killed attempting to escape. It was far too easy to imagine Wilmington going into a rage that would get him shot. Then it would fall back to Ezra; he would have his old job back, with the added weight of an irrationally large tunnel already dug and properly supported under his quarters. In a few hours time, Ezra had the whole sordid ending written in his mind and he had bitten down his nails with every failed attempt to write himself out of the story.</p><p>He had locked himself in his shared quarters and blasted through hand after hand of solitaire until roll call, unwilling to share his grim outlook and run the risk of having it echoed back to him. By then, the rest of the men had stopped hoping for Chris’ early return and were instead smirking at each other. For them it was a win either way; if the Colonel returned with the information then they could start digging again, and if he hadn’t returned then he was free, and maybe halfway to the border as a free man. Nobody would blame him for the hard-earned vacation. Nobody except Standish, but he kept the opinion to himself and stood in line with the rest of them. </p><p>Sgt. Schmidt started roll in the usual way. He kept casting nervous glances toward barracks two as he read off the names for those assigned to barracks one, but that wasn’t entirely novel as the man was fidgety on average. There was no missing the colonel’s empty place in line even from where he stood with the other enlisted men. Schmidt called names and followed up with a headcount, then dismissed the men back to their barracks. He puffed up as he surveyed the two rows of men outside barracks two and the two soldiers who flanked him exchanged uncertain glances. </p><p>“Where is Herr Colonel?” demanded Schmidt.</p><p>“I dunno,” said JD. He was a terrible poker player usually, but this time the lie rolled off his tongue easily. The youngest man in camp, his face was the most beguiling, and he had been practicing saying that believably for over an hour. Vin Tanner made for a good coach and the grin on his face almost gave it away. Ezra caught the expression out the corner of his eye and nudged his bunk mate with his elbow. Vin checked his amusement and faced front again. Schmidt motioned for the two men behind him to check the beds for Larabee while he focused on the men still there awaiting counting. </p><p>“Is he sick?” he asked. “In the showers? Did he do something to be put in the cooler and no one told me? Late leaving the mess?”</p><p>There were a few snickers at the almost panicked note to the questions. JD shook his head. “Nope. Not that anybody told me.”</p><p>Schmidt made an escalating groaning sound, some colloquial butchering of a curse in German, and moved his attentions to Wilmington. Even the guards knew that Larabee and Wilmington stayed within eyesight of each other almost constantly. “What about you? What do you know about this?”</p><p>“Nothing, Sgt. It’s been rainin’ so I’ve been in barracks four with Porter playin’ cards. Made twenty bucks even,” he said. The big grin on his face was met by wide eyes and Schmidt shushed him vehemently. Gambling among the prisoners was forbidden, and the poor sergeant could only handle one crisis at a time. He shook a fist at Wilmington but moved on to the back row, still silently counting heads and faces to ensure that Larabee was the only one missing. A moment later the two he had sent in to the building returned with dour expressions on their faces. Another frustrated sound escaped the scrawny Luftwaffe sergeant and he stomped in the mud on his way to go check Larabee’s bunk himself. Dailies openly pouted at the dirt traipsed and clodded into his home. </p><p>“I have to clean that up, y’know!” he called after the German. That set off a few more snickers from the rows. Not wanting the men to get too rowdy and set off the nervous krauts, Wilmington tossed off a sharp ‘Ten-hut!’ to call them back to attention. The timing was fortunate because not a moment later Brunnheiss appeared at the fence and was walking toward them. Schmidt’s activity had roused suspicion and the Kommandant apparently felt his presence was needed, just to complicate things further. Ezra swore under his breath and kept his eyes front, not sure just what interest the German Colonel was taking in the POWs this time. </p><p>“Report!” Brunnheiss’ order preceded him, the bellow sending Schmidt scrambling out from the hut to fall in with his soldiers before the commandant could take offense at his lack of protocol. It was as though all hell was breaking loose on a landslide after that, the nervous sergeant's report doomed to a bad reception from the start. In a barrage of German and the occasional oath against Larabee’s name, the men of barracks two were ordered back to their beds. Sharp whistles brought the attention of the tower spotlights and the inner gates kicked in by more soldiers, more competent than Schmidt.</p><p>Wilmington and Standish lingered in the doorway of their barracks, watching the commotion unfold with the rest of the men safely behind them. There was a low sort of satisfaction for Ezra to see the smiles of his men fade and the amused chatter die off; the noise had sufficiently reminded them that while the guards had been getting soft to the tolls of war, it had also been making the prisoners soft to the realities of it. The barking of dogs beyond the fence and the priming of weapons was a harsh sound after so long without them. Brunnheiss himself stomped past the prisoners and helped himself to Larabee’s locker to get something for the dogs to catch the scent. He glared out at the prisoners, riding crop snapped at the random bunk support as the younger men all stared back from the perceived safety of their cots. Even Tanner jumped at the crop smacking the table in front of him.</p><p>“Your Colonel will be found!” Brunnheiss roared and waved the man’s jacket in the air. “And when he is, his fate will be on your heads. Each of you. And every man in this camp. For your brawl this morning, oh yes, that ugly display. You caused this. There will be no escapes from my camp!” He glared from face to face. “You are all confined to barracks, I hardly need to say. Anyone venturing out will be shot. On sight. I am understood?”</p><p>Schmidt appeared then to remind the Colonel the dogs were waiting. Brunnheiss waved him off and looked between Tanner, Wilmington and Standish who still lurked near the door. “Sgt. Schmidt, escort the lieutenant to my office and stand guard. I will be in to speak with him shortly.”</p><p>“Me, sir?” Ezra said. The response was involuntary, a gut reaction to the rug being pulled out from under him. Wilmington was the ranking officer, he should have been the whipping boy in Larabee's place. The hesitation earned him another glare and Standish forced himself to attention. “Yessir.” </p><p>A moment later Brunnheiss was stalking back out into the mud with the jacket tucked under an arm to take to the dogs. Wilmington looked to Standish as Schmidt hurried between them to prod the second lieutenant out the door.</p><p>“Keep your mouth shut,” Wilmington said. The needless command was quiet, just a subtle encouragement that fell short. Standish bristled and only nodded as he passed. Tanner followed as far as the door, standing back only because Schmidt barked an order. The German closed the door and sealed the men inside. Two officers gone, one of them safely missing and the other not-so-safely tucked away with an irate Commandant. The men of barracks two were left in the dark to hope for the best.</p><p> </p><p>X---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>The wait in Brunnheiss’ office didn't take long; the Colonel did not join the search teams himself, merely organized them enough to take credit. Standish hadn't even been left alone long enough to steal a cigar from the box on the corner of the big leather-capped desk before Brunnheiss stormed in.</p><p>“Where the hell is your Col. Larabee?” The angry voice could be heard from the secretary's office as the man crossed through to meet with Standish. The door slammed behind him just as noisy as the man’s bellowing. Ezra watched him carefully, trying to get a read on whatever responses would be expected of him.</p><p>“Colonel, I’m sure I don't know. None of the men have seen him all afternoon...” said Ezra. That was apparently not the expected answer. The Colonel's riding crop snapped against the desktop.</p><p>“Verdammt! You knew of the escape! What was his route? How did he get out in the first place?”</p><p>“He never said anything to any of the men.” It was a very good thing that Brunnheiss had never played poker with the man; Standish had dropped behind a mask of neutrality that a few men in camp had learned to hate. Brunnheiss, for whatever reasons, had never noticed the tight expression in their previous dealings to look for it now.</p><p>“Unacceptable! He must have! He told me!” The camp commandant seemed to realize what he had said and fell silent then, still steaming up around the ears but biting his tongue. The reveal struck even Standish silent and it took nearly a full minute before he found his voice.</p><p>“He told you, sir?”</p><p>Brunnheiss scowled and collapsed in to his seat. The implications of the admission were creeping up on him now that he had said it aloud; there was no way he could sugar coat the facts in his report. Thinking on the issue pulled some of the fire from his anger.</p><p>“Yes. Your Colonel was in here yesterday to tell me of rumors of escape. He said something was on the wind and he wanted my cooperation in safely ending the problem before it became one,” said Brunnheiss.</p><p>The news made Standish pause, not sure what to think of the Colonel's subterfuge. </p><p>“Perhaps, in hindsight, you should have listened.”</p><p>Brunnheiss glared. “You forget your place, Lieutenant. I do not seek your counsel. I wish to know where the Colonel can be found.”</p><p>“He did not tell us he was going, so we would have no knowledge of where he would go,” said Ezra. Brunnheiss stared back at Standish, finally seeing past his own anger enough to attempt reading his prisoner.</p><p>“Und if I were to ask Captain Wilmington?” </p><p>Ezra’s retort was accidentally genuine. “From him, you would be lucky to get much more than name and rank. He's an irreverent joker at best.” </p><p>The German considered his American prisoner, weighing his candor against that of the man's currently absent ranking officer. “So I should ask him then? He knows something if he would hide behind...”</p><p>“No, he would rather quote well known info than admit that he does not know something. Do not mistake pride for intelligence,” said Ezra. Upon realizing what he had said, he added, “Sir.” to calm the Colonel's ire at being told yet again what he should or should not do. </p><p>There was sudden noise in the office beyond the closed door. A moment later, Schmidt burst through looking remarkably relieved. “Kommandant! Kommandant!”</p><p>Standish side-stepped just in time to avoid the smaller man’s collision course and looked between the two Germans almost hopefully. Schmidt's boots slid on the wood and left him cringing over a now bruised thigh but he stood at the officer's desk with a full salute. </p><p>“Kommandant! We have found the prisoner!”</p><p>Brunnheiss stood so quickly that his chair fell back, hitting the wall with a loud clatter. Ezra took a deep breath and stifled the smile that threatened. His attention returned to Brunnheiss as he silently awaited permission to go check on the other prisoner.</p><p>“Gut, Schmidt! Where was the dog? I heard no gun shots...” Brunnheiss was moving as he spoke, catching Standish by the arm and shoving him toward the door. Schmidt followed eagerly. </p><p>“No, sir. He was at the front gates, sir. We had only to let him in, sir,” said Schmidt. The younger man wasn't completely oblivious; his report was delivered with a trepidation that made his familiarity with the prideful commandant quite obvious. Standish was thankful he was being rushed ahead of the other two and the smile went unnoticed. </p><p>“He what!” The commandant's roar echoed in the small room and he stopped short. Ezra tried to sneak the remaining distance to the porch but was hauled back. Schmidt's stammering got more nervous than usual.</p><p>“Yessir. When the dogs were done searching the camp we took them to the gates and they let up such a noise... and there was Herr Colonel Larabee. He was just standing there outside on the road. Urmm. Waiting. Sir.”</p><p>“Cooler!” shouted the commandant. He pushed the prisoner in hand back out onto the porch and stood at the railing, looking down on the smiling countenance of Colonel Chris Larabee. Brunnheiss fumed; both usually stoic Americans were smiling. Larabee was surrounded by rifles and men who knew well how to use them, but he was still smiling.</p><p>“I told you,” said Larabee.</p><p>The ruffled Brunnheiss stayed silent for a moment, steaming about the ears until he tossed his sharp brimmed hat onto his head. “Colonel Larabee, as this has been an exemplary exercise on your part, I make it one now on mine. Thirty days in the cooler. To be followed by thirty more if you so much as step one toe out of line!”</p><p>“He's a Colonel...” said Schmidt quietly, surprised by the order. Brunnheiss didn't even balk at the logic. </p><p>“He's a prisoner of the Luftwaffe! Rank does not entitle him to special protections! He's lucky he had not been shot on sight!”</p><p>Beside the commandant, Standish looked to the American colonel, relieved to find him not so much as ruffled. To look at him standing there, it would seem the man had been allowed to walk himself to the office without the first hand put out to escort him. He was a bit damp from the day’s rain, but otherwise fine. Standish shook his head, thankful the man’s rank held more protections with the Geneva Convention than Brunnheiss wanted to allow for at the moment. Sensing Ezra's attention, Chris shifted his gaze to the lieutenant and gave a brief nod.</p><p>“At least it’s an even sixty, Standish. Wilmington can handle it,” he said. Standish tilted his head, brows inching up as he realized what the man was really saying. Sixty feet to the tree line. Somehow in the chaos, or before it, Larabee had paced the field above the tunnel. Ezra nodded, returning the officer's smug grin. </p><p>“Yessir.”</p><p>“No,” said Brunnheiss. He completely misunderstood the men's communication, as planned. “Captain Wilmington will not be the recognized liaison with my office. The lieutenant will make reports. If there is any more trouble, from you or your underling, I will have you transferred to an offizierslager where you will no longer be my problem. I don't wish to waste the resources on the antics of the likes of you, Colonel.”</p><p>Chris’ grin faded soberly and he nodded. “Yessir,” was all he said.</p><p>“Cooler! Schnell!” Brunnheiss’ orders were accompanied by a stomped boot stamping petulantly down on the porch boards. The four German soldiers escorting Larabee whittled down to two as they crossed the camp toward the prison building, the others returning to their regular posts. Schmidt turned to the commandant to await orders and Brunnheiss waved him off.</p><p>“Standish. You will finish roll call with Sgt. Schmidt before returning to barracks,” said Brunnheiss. “And if there is one man who is so much as late to line...”</p><p>“Yessir.” The response came from Schmidt and Standish both, one more enthusiastically than the other. Brunnheiss then returned to his office, slamming the door enough to rattle the signage that decorated the wall. Ezra stepped down to walk with Sgt. Schmidt. The other man started yelling in German, ordering prisoners to be roused from the barracks, and soldiers started running from building to building. They were barking in broken English, echoing voices and banging on doors for a few minutes but the prisoners filed out quietly. They had heard the alarms and knew that one way or another their missing comrade must have been found.</p><p>Ezra said nothing as they moved from building to building; it wasn't necessary as the rumor mill would be in full gear just by his presence alone. The men would have twelve hours to wonder among themselves what was going on and in the morning the gossips would be worse than old women. Once he had set the record straight with the men, Standish would return to the commandant’s office to talk him out of the Colonel's steep sentence. It would take an irrational amount of work, but he was confident that he could do it. If nothing else, he would take a deck of cards and challenge Brunnheiss to the best two hands out of three. </p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>The thirty days without Chris Larabee were looking to be long and dangerous. Without the Colonel's presence, Captain Wilmington called the shots, unchecked. After a two hour roll call, Ezra Standish returned to the barracks with nothing on his mind save a hot cup of watered-down coffee. He settled at the common-room table with what was left of the day’s pot poured into a tin cup and imagined more delicate porcelain at a Vienna hotel balcony cafe. When Wilmington reappeared from his bunk, Ezra only nodded at the Captain’s pompous ramblings. When the actual content of the other man’s noises finally settled into his mind, Standish choked on his coffee and spluttered it all over the table.</p><p>“We cannot dig to the cooler!” yelped Standish suddenly.</p><p>“Yes we can,” said Wilmington. He looked at Ezra rather like the younger man had lost leave of his senses. “This is the perfect opportunity. The Col. works from the inside, we work from hut ten. Chris has wanted a tunnel there for months.”</p><p>“He also mentioned one into the commandant's office. Are you suggesting we get on that while we're at it?” asked Ezra.</p><p>“No, Lt. Just the cooler while we’ve got the man inside long enough to do it,” Wilmington said. From his tone, he was pulling rank on the man’s arguments. It was a done deal, all but set in stone. “Chris is in there for thirty days. We get word to him to make the most of it. Sanchez gets a crew going in ten and from then on we’ve got a way out if we need it.”</p><p>Ezra glowered at the rim of his coffee mug before taking another drink. “This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered to no one in particular. Buck got in his space with a foot on the bench beside him and leaned forward over crossed arms on his knee.</p><p>“We'll be just as dead with a tunnel to the cooler as we will be for a tunnel outside. They can only kill ya once, might as well take advantage of it,” he said quietly to the lieutenant. “You gonna be civil about this or do we have problems?”</p><p>Ezra sat quietly for a moment without looking over at his superior. Turning traitor was a less appetizing notion than getting shot for turning gopher, the only two options this late in the game. He might not agree with it, but there was no sense arguing it and facing a court martial when they finally escaped. </p><p>“We have sixty feet left to dig before we're in the trees,” he said finally. He looked to Buck then, lips a tight, unhappy line. “And I'm to report to the Krauts. Brunnheiss doesn't trust you because of the Colonel.”</p><p>Of all things, Wilmington grinned one of his sloppy, one-sided smirks. “Good. Means I can skip roll call and keep up on my beauty sleep.”</p><p>Ezra scoffed into his coffee. Buck smacked him on the shoulder. “You know you missed it.”</p><p>“Right,” said Ezra. He gave up on his relaxing then and downed the rest of his coffee in one go. “If you'll excuse me, I need to go catch what sleep I can while I’m allowed. If history repeats itself, we'll be waking at an ungodly hour to make up for Col. Larabee's escape attempt."</p><p>“That’s right... you said somethin' about four-am formations after LaRoce busted out last time,” said Wilmington. He straightened up and looked around before settling his gaze on his watch. Ezra merely nodded and made his escape to his room. Wilmington was still grinning, looking around at the men watching him from the bunks.</p><p>“Sixty feet, fellas! Wilson won the pool. Cough it up...” </p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>Inside the small jail, completely oblivious to the roll call and fussing from his men, Larabee was searched for contraband before being put in a cell. The bag with him held food, apples and bread stolen from the truck and buried under his coat and a change of ‘civilian’ clothes. The Sgt. in charge of the search only swirled his hand at the bottom of the bag, figuring heavier things like weapons would naturally fall there. He had no objections to the apple core he found instead, tossing it to the door to be kicked outside later. With no knives or other weapons found, Larabee was allowed to keep his bag. The guards left with hardly a word after that. </p><p>With an apple in hand for dinner, Chris spent the next few hours rattling a baseball off the walls of his cell. Thirty days inside would pass in the blink of an eye if the Krauts were going to play along so well as all this. Even if they suddenly wised up later, it would all be worth it once he passed the bag off to one of his men. If the guard had found the radio parts stuffed in between the folds of his civilian clothes, thirty days in the cooler would have been the least of the American’s problems. Instead it looked like he was home free.</p><p>The whole day had left Chris Larabee in such an unusually good mood that when a tune came to mind, he whistled. Whenever a guard stuck his nose through the barred window to check on him, Larabee smiled. And he found, to further his satisfaction with the day, that doing so rattled the guards and they left him alone a bit longer than their usual rounds called for. At lights-out, the ball-toss became impossible so he traded it for the pitiful attempt at a cot. Wood legs and a thread-bare canvas made a better bed than stone cold floor, though. He had extra layers of clothes and a jacket in lieu of a blanket, so despite his damp-state he managed to beat the cold. Then he settled in for a night of real peace and quiet, with no roll call in the morning to wake up for. All told, it had been a busy, productive day for the first time in months, and to top it off he had gotten fresh food and a free pass to sleep in the next morning. It was almost criminal, the benefits of insulting the German commandant and getting away with it.</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>As planned, Wilmington got both digs going. Nathan managed to sneak a metal spoon in for Chris with a meal one day, even though they weren't entirely sure what he would do with it. The Col. had assured them he knew just where to start digging and they left it at that. It was going to be tricky finding a place to put a hole undetected in a cement room, but Larabee was determined and he had plenty of time on his hands.</p><p>Meanwhile, his men were sure to get into no more than their usual trouble. Barracks two residents were particularly careful and tried to disappear among the rest of the prisoners as much as possible. Guilt by association had Brunnheiss gunning for them in the figurative sense, and none of them felt the need to up the ante. Most of the men stayed inside because of the dreary weather, digging when it was safe. Barracks ten fell into a good pace with their project fairly quickly. They had a smaller tunnel to aim for, less distance to cover and narrower walls with only one or two men needing potential access to the small jail at a time. That tunnel wouldn't have the benefit of a generator to provide lights and safer air. It was slower and harder work, but thankfully there was less of it. The main tunnel to the trees hit its goal at about the same time as the tunnel to the cooler. By the end of two weeks, the men were shoring up their passage ways with pilfered timber and awaiting further instructions.</p><p>Standish arranged with the guards to allow Jackson in as a medic to check Larabee over once or twice. Because the isolated prisoner was a colonel, the camp commandant allowed it and the regular meals, particularly once Standish started bargaining for a reduced sentence. The German was still mad at the American's brash, insulting behavior so unbefitting of his rank, so Standish had quickly abandoned his petitions for a shorter incarceration. Nathan was in every day with meals, and every few days just as a check-up, to trade information on the progress of the tunnels. </p><p>The Col. was slowly digging the grout out from between stone work in the walls and had discovered that the walls of the cells had a three foot gap between them, dead space intended as insulation as well as an escape deterrent. Moving one or two stones let a man into the crawl space, out of sight of the krauts. It was a good place to start digging down, however slow and tedious it was with nothing but a broken bit of spoon as a shovel. The poor designers of their brilliant little cage had relied too heavily on the prisoners wanting out of the cooler and not enough time on those prisoners who might want under it instead. Granted, digging at cement, quiet enough to avoid trouble and in a small space with no light, tried Chris’ patience and sanity, but he made good enough progress. What he didn't get done during his incarceration would be left to the diggers. Nathan had been able to pace the outer hall for a good guess on where to start digging up, under the concrete, to make it into the concrete.</p><p>Meanwhile, the men outside still hadn't licked the notion of hiding the entrance to the escape tunnel. Everything else seemed to be falling into place perfectly, so it wasn't a panic point. JD was always coming up with ideas towards the solution, unfortunately most of them could be countered by the tag-teaming of Standish and Jackson thinking from the prison guards’ perspectives. And while Wilmington crowed over the work being accomplished under his watch, the camp commandant was sure, nearly daily, to do his own gloating to slow up the works. He checked on barracks two regularly, at roll call or more indirectly by sending for Lt. Standish's report from the camp barracks chiefs. It frustrated Standish to no end, as he had work needing done towards the escape, and the commandant merely wasted his time. There was nothing of substance to Brunnheiss, Standish had decided, and it was increasingly difficult not to show boredom as the Col. prattled and preached.</p><p>“Your Colonel's time in solitary is nearly up,” Brunnheiss said to the Lt. one almost-sunny afternoon. They had dispatched with the rest of the camp news already, Standish's mind on the news of the day that he would have to see dispersed to the men of the camp for their own safety. The seemingly left-field observation on Chris Larabee brought the Lt. back to the conversation rather quickly. Brunnheiss didn't seem to notice and continued on, an arrogant grin on his face. “How are the prisoners fairing? Can their hearts handle the strain?”</p><p>The expression on Ezra's face was an unbecoming sort of confusion. “Excuse me, sir?”</p><p>“Your Colonel! Larabee. That negro medic you cleared has been in there very day. Checking on his health? The Amerikaner Colonel is... being coddled.”</p><p>Standish snuffed and squared his shoulders, not quite aware of the offense he had just taken at the German’s interpretation of events. “Staff-Sgt Jackson has been taking him meals, Commandant. Jackson is the medic I requested be allowed to see him, but he has only been saving Schmidt the extra hassle of getting the Col. his meals.”</p><p>“I should cut his rations,” said Brunnheiss. It was a thoughtful, genuine observation that again ruffled Standish more than the Lt. was fully aware of. “After all, having his meals catered to him by comrades does not leave him to enjoy the full scope of isolation, as intended. Und I do have other duties for meine feldwebel than minding the Cooler.”</p><p>Standish cleared his throat and even dared shake his head at the Colonel's suggestion.</p><p>“Then perhaps you should save the resources and release him from solitary confinement early,” he said. The Colonel puffed his chest and looked about to reprimand the Lieutenant's cheek so Standish plunged ahead. “Sir, you asked how the men were reacting to the Colonel's isolation? I must inform you that they do not seem to notice, any more than they would for another man. The men report to their barracks chief, he then reports to me, and I then to you. With the transfers we have had, new men coming and others leaving every few months, everything is fairly independent among the rest of us. Colonel Larabee has negligible influence on the non-commissioned men here, sir. If I may be completely honest, commandant, you seem much more invested in it than any of the men.” </p><p>The observation was delivered cautiously, not wanting to irritate the commandant more than necessary. It was the only play Standish would allow himself, and if it did not work then he would let it pass. Brunnheiss' vanity would always overrule the man's conversational skills. Surprisingly, the commandant caught on to Ezra's point, overlooking the slight and seeing at least a shadow of the truth behind them. He pursed his lips and started to fluff up a bit, but for whatever reasons, kept the irritation in check. </p><p>“You are dismissed, Lt.”</p><p>Standish tossed off a salute before turning to leave. Only then did he allow himself a smug smile. It was two full days before the German called him into the office to gloat again.</p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The guards in the camp weren't all bad. They weren’t all Nazis, either, just soldiers on the opposite side of a war. In that sense, it wasn’t much different from spending a few days behind bars back home after a bar fight for the American POWs, aside from the obvious threat to life and liberty that would never be present in a small-town. But like at home, the men with the keys were just men, and mortal man could always be bought for the right price. </p><p>Most of the POWs though wouldn't dream of the practice of trading with the German guards, even scoffing at those who employed it. To them, it was too close to collaborating with the enemy, making friends and alliances in the face of those due, to the people still fighting. What little comforts they got from home, they kept to themselves. It was rare enough that they got anything they were promised, and when surrounded by other men, dirty and cold and flea-bitten by the bugs of a foreign country, those small trifles of candy in their American wrappers or tobacco that smelled like the corner pharmacy were just that much more important.</p><p>Still, more than half of Josiah Sanchez’ Red Cross packages - when they made it through - went toward building ‘report’ with his keepers. Quiet trading of cigarettes, chocolate bars and canned preserves went a long way toward keeping the pitiful shack he called a church standing through the winter months, and mostly kept the prisoners who visited it unhassled.</p><p>He wasn't the only prisoner greasing Kraut palms, either. Young JD used the trick to get extras from the kitchen for his science experiments. Buck and Ezra both traded with the guards for the sake of chatter, a way to appear friendly and harmless enough to be let in on German operational politics within the camp. Most of the information was then translated and sent through the rumor mill if it related to the war beyond the fences, but sometimes they happened on little gold mines that they kept to themselves to use later. That was how Standish had learned of Herr Wexler’s gambling problem and now held one of the young guard’s outstanding debts.</p><p>For half a carton of cigarettes - extortion in some circles - Josiah arranged for a week on the work detail for himself and the youngest member of Larabee's Seven. It was a promise to get out of the camp fences for a full six hours, even if it was just to work at a rate hardly better than slave labor. Outside was outside, and with the tunnel still sealed off at one end, it was the easiest way, no matter how temporary a reprieve.</p><p>As soon as he was dismissed from roll with his hut, Sanchez made his way to barracks two to remind the kid. Once there, he was welcomed by a wonderful scent that masked the usual smells of a winter-drenched prison camp. The bitter warmth of dark coffee had drifted on the air down the narrow hall past the private quarters to hang in the doorway and momentarily distracted Josiah from his purpose in the early morning visit.</p><p>“Is that coffee?” The question was his announcement of intrusion on the other men’s barracks. One or two men looked over at him as he moved past the lockers into the open area near the tables, but most of the men ignored him in preference of sleep. It was hardly sun-up, the camp still paying for Larabee's escape even now that the Col. was back among the general population.</p><p>“Why yes, it is, Mr. Sanchez. The genuine article, nectar of the very gods,” said Ezra Standish. “None of this watered down charcoal swill the well-meaning home front expects should sate the senses. That is more like to peel the non-existent paint from the walls. This, I assure you, is coffee.”</p><p>Josiah returned the man’s smile as he crossed to the pipe stove to stand over the wonderful aroma. Ezra eased to his feet from his slouch over the table, mug in hand. With the manners of a gentleman, he excused his intrusion on the other man’s moment and helped himself to the dented tin kettle. Josiah quickly looked around for a spare mug and was soon holding up another for pouring into next. Ezra’s manners didn’t waver and he very politely refused to pour.</p><p>“That’ll be five,” the Southerner said. Josiah's grin slowly disappeared behind momentary confusion.</p><p>“Five?”</p><p>“Cigarettes.” All business, Standish was also the picture of innocence. Josiah stared at the younger man and thought very seriously about decking the man’s free-enterprising spirit across the jaw. Hopeful smile well past faded, Josiah set the borrowed mug back on the table where he had found it.</p><p>“Forget it,” he said.</p><p>“Suit yourself,” Ezra said. He smiled over the rim of his own tin cup. Josiah sighed and returned his attention to his original task. He spotted JD Dunne sprawled in a nearby top bunk, where he had watched the previous exchange with sleepy, heavy eyes.</p><p>“Come back tomorrow. What’s left is free,” said JD. He scrubbed at his hair and then stifled a yawn. “Reckon it's good coffee, but not worth my smokes.”</p><p>“Maybe I will,” said Josiah. “Right now, you best get up. They'll finish their appell soon enough and start rounding up workers. You and I are on the list this week.”</p><p>“Really?” JD's eyes were suddenly wide. He pushed himself up and edged off his cot to drop to the floor. He was a blur of uncoordinated movement digging out his uniform. Ezra looked to Josiah, no longer smug about his coffee rations.</p><p>“Is anyone else going with you?” he asked.</p><p>“A group of us. Schmidt said he needs about ten men to clear some snow off the bridge into Hammelberg,” said Josiah.</p><p>“Ahman. Not snow...” The complaint was quiet, involuntary but enough to slow JD's enthusiasm. Ezra, however, seemed suddenly interested.</p><p>“There are other ways into Hammelburg. Why is that one so important?” he wondered.</p><p>“A stitch in time saves nine,” said Josiah. The big man shrugged his shoulders. “I'm not about to ask the Krauts, either. Wexler’s leading the goon squad that goes out with us and he don't like my German.”</p><p>“I don't like your English,” said the smart-ass Cockney Martin Dailies. He smirked at Sanchez’ grin and tipped an invisible hat brim for having interrupted. Still, he stood nearby, digging five ciggs from a pack. Ezra eyed the goods set on the table before him and nodded his approval. Dailies helped himself to a coffee.</p><p>“I'm on Wexler’s bleedin' work detail. I’ll see what I can get out of him; he knows me, maybe he’ll admit to knowin’ somethin’ else?”</p><p>“What for?” asked JD. “It’s a bridge. So they don't like snow. Believe me, I wouldn’t shovel it off either if I was in their shoes.”</p><p>“Exactly, Mr. Dunne,” said Ezra. “Why do they need the bridge cleared today, rather than wait for it to melt down?”</p><p>“They must need to cross it,” said JD. He shrugged. Ezra nodded and withdrew behind his coffee mug. Josiah studied Ezra briefly before exchanging glances with Dailies. The three older men seemed to be thinking on the same track.</p><p>“Want me to check in to it, sir?” asked the Brit.</p><p>“I doubt the guards will know anything about it,” said Josiah. Ezra nodded his agreement.</p><p>“It’s only a mild curiosity,” he finally said. His gaze cut to Dailies. “If you hear something, remember it. But don't cause trouble.”</p><p>“Yessir.”</p><p>JD looked between them, brow furrowed.</p><p>“It’s just a bridge,” he said. Ezra nodded, grinned faintly. He refreshed his half-gone ration of coffee and took a drink. Then, without a word, he handed it to JD and turned to go find Nathan Jackson.</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>Standish found Sgt. Jackson outside, slouched against one of the huts and apparently very comfortably seated on a water barrel. “Do we have a functioning radio yet?” he asked quietly.</p><p>The other man furrowed his brow at the topic of discussion being brought up out of doors. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Incoming or outgoing?”</p><p>“Both. We think. We just don't know who we're talking to yet.” Nathan kept his head down and hoped none of the guards knew how to read lips in English. Ezra seemed to be completely missing his discomfort with the subject and plowed ahead.</p><p>“That’s the official report?” he asked.</p><p>“Excuse me?” Nathan finally looked over at the man, genuinely confused. Ezra shifted so he leaned against the hut and faced Nathan more completely, his back to the rest of the world.</p><p>“The Colonel thought to obtain a radio with no notions of who to contact?” he asked. Nathan hesitated, stopping his work over a dictionary-turned-code-book to look up at the anxious Southerner.</p><p>“What’s it matter? The tunnel's still closed up. No need to talk to the outside until we can make arrangements for the escape,” he said.</p><p>“What if there was one? What if we're handed a piece of tactical information that would be a benefit to the allies?” Ezra's voice seemed to have gotten quieter and Nathan briefly wondered if the man had lost his marbles.</p><p>“We're in a prisoner of war camp. What could we possibly know?” he asked.</p><p>“The Germans are moving something across the bridge at Hammelburg that won't wait for the snow to melt,” said Ezra.</p><p>“It's probably nothing.” Nathan even shrugged in his indifference to what the Lt. found so crucial.</p><p>“Yes, but what if it isn’t? What if it's munitions? Or men? We’ll know where they'll be and we have a radio to report it.”</p><p>“Yes, but no one to report it to. And even if we can get something out, there's no way they could act on it in time,” said Nathan.</p><p>“So we do nothing?” said Standish. The two men could not disagree more even if their lives didn’t usually depend on it. Nathan grumbled to himself and shut the book finally, rather forcibly reminding himself that Standish outranked him.</p><p>“What's the Colonel say?” he asked. When in doubt, default to the man over the lieutenant's head. Standish gave a small shrug.</p><p>“If we have no one to report to then it's null and void, thus I have not taken this to him. I do not yet know why they need the bridge.”</p><p>“Maybe to get to Hammelburg?” said Nathan. The sarcasm wasn't missed and Standish raised a brow. The first response that came to mind was quickly shelved as Ezra liked to think that he was over the petty, crass insults that he and Sgt. Jackson had traded in their early months of working together. But honestly, he had expected Jackson to be sharper than all of this.</p><p>“Is there a reason you are overlooking my point, Sgt., or do you truly find ignorance to be bliss?” It was all he would allow himself and was delivered with a grim expression.</p><p>“Ignorance is bliss, Lt. But my point remains; we're in a prison camp. There’s nothing we can pass along that wouldn't be out-of-date by the time our side could act on it.”</p><p>“I disagree.”</p><p>Nathan shrugged and returned his attention to his coding.</p><p>“Where’s the Colonel?” asked Standish.</p><p>“Not here?” replied Jackson.</p><p>If insubordination were to be acted on inside the camp, Ezra's life would have been a lot easier. However, the only rank that seemed to get its due respect among the enlisted men was the Colonel's and his captain’s. Ezra and the two other lieutenants in camp had to pick their battles for seniority very carefully. And Standish was just as happy to square his grievances at the nightly card games.</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p> </p><p>By the time the work detail returned to camp, Standish had pitched his idea to Larabee. The man’s reaction was one of those eerie grins and a very rare, low chuckle.</p><p>“I was hoping somethin’ like that would come along,” was all he said. Ezra took it to be a positive indicator, but otherwise could get no further discussion on it. Chris was waiting for his men to return, to discuss it with the group as a whole.</p><p>Dailies dragged himself through the door first, complaining and making a racket.</p><p>“That’s it. Final straw. Soon as I thaw out, I’m blowin’ this burg,” he said to no one in particular. No one paid him any mind anyway, as he had made the promise at least once a day, most every day of the week. Josiah and JD seemed far less tired when they walked in; Dunne was practically bouncing. All of them were soaked from at least the knees down because of the snow.</p><p>“Got news,” said Josiah. He stood near the pipe stove to warm himself and spotted Ezra's emergence from quarters immediately.</p><p>“Really? Do tell,” said Ezra. He tapped on the Colonel's door on the way into the common area and a moment later, Larabee's six were holding an impromptu meeting at the long table near the stove. Vin Tanner faded away to go watch the door; Standish would catch him up later and he wouldn't have to stand around in the thick of a crowd.</p><p>“Wexler's an arrogant twit, ain’t he?” said Dailies. The young Brit was quite the actor, full of theatrics and fancied himself a natural orator. Some bought into his performances while everyone else just excused his antics as harmless; he wasn't the only one who liked to hear himself talk. And on the topic of Wexler's status as a twit, well, no one was going to argue with Dailies about that, so the man carried on.</p><p>“So he was just full'a useful info on that bridge. Turns out, there's a munitions plant tucked away in Hammelburg. And the trucks to move the stuff is too big for the alternate route up the hill road. So the Krauts don’t like that bridge bein’ indisposed.”</p><p>“Yeah, and if it snows tonight, we gotta go and shovel it all off again,” said JD. The poor lad had thought he was signing up to paint homes or build things and the disappointment was felt more strongly now after a full day of pushing snow.</p><p>“So we’ve got a choice,” said Larabee. The man looked around at his fellow prisoners. “We take out the bridge or we go after the munitions plant.”</p><p>The barrage of noise kicked up by his announcement ranged from incredulous to concerned.</p><p>“What the bloody...”</p><p>“Bridge?!”</p><p>“That's a choice?!”</p><p>Nathan Jackson was the first to regain his senses as Larabee waved the men in to quiet again.</p><p>“This wasn't part of the plan. We were only here to free the camp. Not spy and sabotage behind enemy lines,” he said.</p><p>“That’s the best place to do it, ain’t it?” said Chris. The man was grinning again. Nathan was getting a little nervous that the man really meant it.</p><p>“We have no support, Colonel. No resources. Hell, half the time we don't even get regular meals.”</p><p>“And we’re already prisoners. If we're locked up, we’re above suspicion and safe. We tap into the resources of the local underground and we offer up man power to their efforts with the Krauts none the wiser. All we’ve got to do is rig up the tunnel exit and we can bring in our own food. Make sure the men get real food every day, instead of sawdust.”</p><p>Remembering a conversation from months earlier, Ezra Standish finally put the pieces together. “This was the mission all along. To turn a PoW camp into another resource for the Allies.”</p><p>Chris’ faint grin didn't waver. “We'll still get our men out, but why rush? We can serve our countries invaluably from right here.”</p><p>“You already have contacts with the underground then? That’s how you got the parts for the radio,” said Josiah. Larabee nodded.</p><p>“While we’ve been working in here, the underground has been setting up support contacts outside. The whole thing takes time. When we're ready, we'll reach out. But not until the tunnel's finished. And not until you're all on board. Every man in this hut, and no further.”</p><p>“The tunnel's not exactly a secret anymore,” said JD. “We've had a bunch'a guys workin’ on it.”</p><p>“So the word gets out that the tunnel can’t be finished. Too many trees and rocks,” said Larabee. He was back to his usual all-business command gruff. “Once we take this step, every man involved becomes an active enemy combatant. The tunnel is just the beginning of the trouble we can cause with thirty men. But if we’re caught at it, Geneva won't protect us anymore. Every man here is as good as dead.”</p><p>There was a long silence after the announcement. Men who had been minding their own business dropped down from their bunks and crept to stand around the table, ready to protest. Surprisingly it was Buck Wilmington who waved them down. He knew nothing of Larabee's plans until the rest of the men had but he was backing his friend blindly.</p><p>“Look around at who it is standing beside you, gents. We got the cream of the crop in this hut,” said Buck. “Most of you have worked together before. All of you want back in the fight more’n you want to go home. That ain’t by accident. We've been at this for awhile; Colonel Larabee ain’t pullin’ this out'a his ass.”</p><p>“I'm not in this barrack,” said Josiah. He wasn't sure if he should be offended or grateful for the fact just yet.</p><p>“Nope. You're the closest thing we've got to a preacher, Preacher. Figure you oughta be left out’a the noose as long as possible,” said Chris. “And if anybody runs his mouth, you'll hear about it first.” He returned his attention to the group in general.</p><p>“I'm looking for a year or less commitment, from this point on. At the end of it, every man here has a guaranteed ticket back home and full acknowledgment of your effort.”</p><p>“You bleedin' Yanks gone round the bend,” muttered Dailies.</p><p>“Thanks for the reminder,” said Larabee. Dailies looked up like he’d been kicked at that but Larabee pretended not to notice and carried on. “Looking around you'll see we’re not all Americans in this hut. This is a joint mission among the Allies. This Yank reports to London; they're closer and can respond faster.”</p><p>“Oh,” was all that Dailies had to say to that.</p><p>“Anythin' else?” Chris asked. The silence was almost oppressive.</p><p>“What if a man doesn’t want to volunteer for this?” said Josiah. He was only speaking what he felt would be weighing on the men's minds; as far as he was concerned, he had already signed up for the Kraut death-squad's wrath when he tossed his first square of dirt.</p><p>“If there’s a problem, we’ll do another shuffle,” said Chris. “It's gotta be volunteers.”</p><p>“But if a man gets out and turns rat, the court martial will be held right back in here,” said Wilmington. There was an appropriate menace to his words, but ratting was the last thing on anyone’s mind just then. All was quiet as the men considered their options; sign back up as a spy, or run the risk of a kangaroo court if something ever went sideways.</p><p>“I'm in,” said JD. His answer was predictable. Larabee had counted on JD, Josiah, Ezra, Nathan and Vin’s combined unquestioning agreement after having worked with them so closely over the past eight months. And it was taken for granted that his old friend Buck would stand behind him on it. He was a bit surprised that Nathan wasn't so quick to nod, and that it was Ezra that seemed to pound down the final nail.</p><p>“The tunnel alone issued our death warrants. Anything else is just adding our signature to the page. We've made it this far, we’re already beating the odds. I, for one, enlisted for the sole purpose of raising the stakes,” he said quietly. That earned a few more nods of agreement. Chris went man to man then, asking for a decision. There wasn't a single man who backed down.</p><p>“Alright. You think on it tonight. Tomorrow at roll call will be the last chance to request a transfer,” said Larabee. “For tonight, we table it.”</p><p>“Yessir,” made the rounds and men filtered slowly back to their bunks. JD, though, was full of confidence and bottled energy as he approached the colonel.</p><p>“Sir... I got an idea when I was outside today. On how to close off the other end of the tunnel,” he said. Chris raised a brow and opened his mouth to ask for details when Vin returned to the common area suddenly.</p><p>“Gerries comin’,” he said. Larabee glanced at his watch.</p><p>“Roll,” he said. Then he pointed to JD and looked the young man in the eye. “You tell me this when we're done.”</p><p>“Yessir!” said JD.</p><p>A moment later there was pounding on the door and the shouting of familiar orders for roll call. Larabee sighed and kicked listlessly at the table bench.</p><p>“Fall out!”</p><p> </p><p>x---x---x---x---x</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>x---x---x---x---x---x</p><p>~ The End ~</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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